What is Faith (Just a Sequence of Grace and Gravity)
by liliwick the WORD
Summary: There's Pewdiepie. There's Cry. And then there's a zombie apocalypse. That's when shit hits the fan. (Or, that one fic where two gamer boys who've played survival horror games get stuck in a real zombie apocalypse and have real, bad shit happening to them.)
1. Chapter 1

To be honest, Real Person Fiction is not my forte. Except this needed to be written. Because a zombie apocalypse AU and PewdieCry give way to so many possibilities.

(Thanks, Pewds and Cry, for those zombie game co-ops. It does wonders for a girl's imagination.)

Title borrowed from Medic's _Grace and Gravity._

Also, shoutout to **suikalopolis** for encouraging me to take on this project. She wanted one of these too.

* * *

"_Friendship isn't about who you have known the longest. It's about who came and never left your side." **– Anonymous**_

* * *

**01.**

He turns and sees a zombie standing there.

Its skin is a sickly pale yellow which is on its way to rotting and there is dried blood coating its broken, misshapen nose. The poor man that this undead creature was before must have been killed recently, perhaps a few days ago, as the blood that bled out from the gaping hole in the middle of its back has stained the white striped business shirt it wears. It has not yet seen nor heard him come into the store of the abandoned gas station. It seems pretty occupied with banging its fists on a door which he is sure leads to where the storeroom is. He wonders whether the small, battered, blue Ford Fiesta parked outside used to be the dead man's car and whether he can fish the car keys out once he bashes it on the head until it is properly dead.

But now he needed to go into that storeroom. His supplies are running out. He needs more bandages, more medicine, more food to last for a few more days. To him, a storeroom is a gold mine. There are plenty of things to scavenge for and collect if he comes across one that has not yet been raided.

Silently, he adjusts his grip on the shovel he carries in his hands. He has other makeshift weapons that he has brought with him in his backpack but the shovel has been the most effective weapon against the undead and is therefore his favourite so far. The shovel's blade has seen its fair share of zombie decapitations and has saved his life so many times that he lost count. He eyes the wooden floor between them and considers the possibility of whether creeping up on the creature may not be a good idea if the floor panes are likely to creak. Zombies can't see or smell living things, he has learned a while ago. But they had _hear _you perfectly.

He considers throwing a random object to the other side of the room to distract the creature and draw it away from the storeroom door so that he could run inside but this plan is stopped when he thinks of the possibility that the door may be locked. Even if there is a second of hesitation, the rattling of a doorknob can drive the zombie's attention onto him and there is no way that he is going to take that risk. Which leaves one possible plan: to charge forward, shovel raised over his head, ready to strike the zombie down before it has a chance to turn around and attack him.

Cry quietly takes a deep breath and braces himself for the upcoming kill.

* * *

_**Three weeks ago**_

It begins on an ordinary day. Except he misses out on what happens during the morning and afternoon hours of his daily life. His 'day' usually starts in the evening and carries on into the late night and early hours of the morning where he spends most of his time recording and editing videos.

He doesn't know how he can sleep through an entire day without being woken up at all but once he does, he notices that something is wrong. The rest of the house lies in semi-darkness and he cannot hear anyone downstairs. On the outside however, he hears the muffled noises of blasting car alarms and people shouting and car engines roaring past. A dog barks continuously from the house two doors down from his and someone has set the TV volume on too loud from an open window somewhere, spilling out to the world the sound of the broadcasting News.

There is a yowling and scratching noise coming from the bathroom when he steps out onto the dark landing. Once he opens the bathroom door, he is almost knocked off his feet when his cat darts past him and flies down the stairs.

"Kitty!" he calls out in alarm because he has never seen her act like this before. He thinks he saw the whites of her eyes when she leapt out of the bathroom in a mad scramble. By the time he races downstairs, he hears the sound of the cat flap clattering against the door and knows that Kitty is gone.

He tries calling his sister and niece on the landline because it's nearing five thirty in the evening so they should be back by now but freezes when he finds that the lines are busy. After trying half a dozen more numbers including the emergency services, he comes up with the same result. The mobile phone he retrieves from the folds of his bed sheets reveal that there is no signal. The last text message he received from anyone had been more than six hours ago, from Felix Kjellberg, who informed him he was heading to the airport to catch his flight home to Sweden.

It is only then that the beginnings of panic start to seep in. _I can't call anyone, _he realises. _I can't call anyone. What the hell is going on? What the hell is going on outside? _He wants to step out the front door and find out but the amount of noise that's happening outside his house is worrying. _Calm down_, he tells himself instead as he pulls his gaze away from the front door. _Calm the fuck down._

"The news," he mutters aloud to himself after a while. His voice sounds hollow and scared in the empty room he's in. It's unnerving.

When he switches on the TV, he sincerely wishes he hadn't.

"…_We urge the public not to panic…"_

"…_Riots involving bizarre and violent behaviour–_ "

"_Phone networks are down, including internet connection–"_

"_Please stay indoors…"_

"…_The situation seems out of control…"_

"_People attacking each other–"_

"…_Evacuate to a safer place…"_

"_Stock up as much as you can…"_

"…_Please do not approach these people…"_

Somehow he finds the words he hears from the news reporters fly over his head because he cannot believe what he is seeing. It is like a scene that is familiar in the movies. An aerial view of some part of the city which he vaguely recognises is shown and the camera footage zooms in on a mass of people staggering towards a line of riot policemen armed with shields and batons. The people in this strange group are deathly pale, their faces twisted, their eyes unblinking. From the couch he sits on, he feels a shudder go through his body. Something is terribly wrong about these people, something unnatural and sure enough, he almost startles in his seat when one of the group separates from her party, pounces onto the nearest policeman with such force that it knocks his helmet off and then sinks her teeth onto his bare face.

A fountain of dark blood shoots up.

"Oh my _god_," he isn't sure if he is the one who blurts this out because the reporter who is voicing over this footage utters this too before continuing to babble in disbelief and horror. All he knows now after that first bite is that the situation quickly turns into chaos. The line of policeman breaks and the mass of crazy, deathly pale people fall onto them and it is only when a policeman's arm is torn off and two or three people begin to fight over it, ripping the flesh out of the arm and devouring it, that the footage is cut short. The newsroom returns to the screen to reveal the newscasters' stunned faces.

He takes off his glasses and presses the heels of his hands onto his closed eyes. He tries very hard to will himself to breathe normally.

For him, the footage he has seen is enough. He has seen enough images from movies and videogames and TV shows and comic books to guess what is going on. But this is surreal, he thinks, it's impossible and it's sick and it's hard to accept that this is actually happening. Is this why the streets outside are loud and full of frenzied noises, of families leaving in their cars and zooming past to get to the main highway leading far away from here? Is this why the dog from two doors down can't stop barking like mad and why Kitty ran away because they already sensed that this danger was coming? When did all this start? How can it happen when he spent the entire day fucking sleeping? And where the hell was– he gulps down his fear. Oh god, where the hell was his family? Are they okay? Did they try to call him like he did before and couldn't get through? Where are they, are they safe? Where was his sister and niece? They didn't get– Oh my god, where _are_ they?

The next thing he knows he is pacing up and down across the TV screen, many questions dropping into his mind like weights, carrying with them a fresh wave of anxiety and disbelief. How can all this be happening? Is this a joke? A hoax? He checks another news channel on TV, ignoring the fact that his palm is sweaty as he grips the remote control. For almost an hour, he surfs every channel and finds the same kind of reports, watches the same images of random chaos, of people blabbering about what they saw ("Saw him attack old Mr. Grayson. Bit him in the neck like some vampire"). One news channel reports many cases of people looting stores and stealing things in a desperate attempt to stock up on supplies. Another channel shows a footage of a highway congested with honking cars leading out of the city. He can't believe this chaos, can't believe it is happening right now.

And here he is, alone and stupidly stunned and standing in front of the TV, having missed the development of this hell throughout the duration of the day all because he had _slept_ through it.

Where was his sister and niece?

Panic keeps bubbling in his chest, making it hard for him to breathe. The thought of them out there, stuck in that traffic jam, thinking and worrying about him at home. The thought that they were rushing to get back to the house only to be ambushed by a mob of zomb–

"_No_!" he finds himself yelling. The remote control flies out of his hand and clatters onto the floor in several pieces. "They're alive," he tries to reassure himself, pushing the dreaded image away from his mind. "They're okay. They could have escaped the city. They're okay, they're _alive._"

In the end, he repeats this mantra over and over and again and again to stop himself from losing it completely.

* * *

Three days crawl by. He does not leave the house during those long three days except on the morning of the second day, when he opens the front door and is almost startled senseless at the sound of a piercing scream that fills the air. It's distant and not anywhere near his neighbourhood but it nonetheless terrifies him enough to retreat into his house and lock the door. After that, he barricades himself in, pushes heavy furniture to block any points of entry around the house except his bedroom window, which presents the view of his neighbourhood.

He gets used to waking up in the mornings now because during the night time, it becomes eerily quiet and the dead silence unnerves him. In the daytime, he watches most of his neighbours leave, piling into their cars which are filled with suitcases and food and boxes before they drive off to join the long queue of vehicles all heading away from the city.

Apart from his bedroom window, the TV remains his only link to the world outside and after every hour, the situation worsens. He watches in a haze of disbelief and with a heavy heart of fear as panic and violence and blood descend upon the city streets. There are people being attacked and bitten and eaten alive. A helicopter flies overhead, passing a tall building spewing black smoke from an open window. There are screams and shouts everywhere, crowds of people running and pushing at each other in a desperate attempt to flee. He is horrified when he actually sees someone get trampled to death by the raging stampede. On another channel, they show a footage of some of the bitten victims turning and it is disturbing to see them stagger upright, their faces sickly pale, blood staining their clothes and gushing out of gaping wounds, their eyes blank and unblinking and with their rising, comes the craving for living flesh.

All throughout this, he tries calling again and again to reach any of his family members or friends until, on the third morning, he picks up the house phone only to find the line dead.

So far, he has been living on the food in the fridge and in the pantry and it's enough to last him for at least a month. He worries about what will happen though once the month is up and considers that perhaps he should go out one day and scavenge for supplies in his neighbours' homes now that they have left.

It is on his fifth day that he finally sees them staggering around in his neighbourhood.

His first zombie, he realises with a start, is someone familiar to him. The man used to live down the road and worked at a strip mall about a mile away from here. Now he watches him – _it, _lurch crookedly up the empty road. It is dragging its broken leg with it, the foot twisted at an awkward angle. Part of its face is falling off, the sallow skin around its lips sagging, revealing the bottom row of its yellowed teeth. From his window, he can faintly hear the creature moaning softly as it moves and after an hour of watching it totter from one house to another, more zombies follow after that first one and he slowly watches them take over his neighbourhood.

The situation, he realises, is becoming dangerous. The last thing he wants is to emerge from the house and face a hundred of these. It is best to leave the house, the neighbourhood, the city while there are still a few of them.

The five days of being holed up in the house has been difficult for him because he has been living on the hope that he is waiting for his family to come home. Now, the arrival of the zombies in his neighbourhood have compelled him to shift into survival mode. The movies he watched and the videogames he played gives him a sense of what he should do in these situations. He begins to think about which supplies to bring with him on his journey ahead and what kind of weapon he can take to defend himself. Canned food, bottles of water, bandages and first aid kit, flashlight and batteries, matches, booze (oh, definitely that), a Swiss army knife, his spare glasses. Maybe he should pop down to the basement and take a look in the toolbox. There might be a hammer or something sharp he could use as a weapon.

This new sense of purpose gives him something to do instead of worry endlessly about the wellbeing of his missing family. He gets to it as soon as he can so by the sixth day, just as the sun begins to climb up the clear blue sky, he takes his chance when the coast is clear to emerge silently from his house, supporting a large backpack on his back and a metal baseball bat in his hand, and gives himself thirty seconds to say goodbye to his house, to his previous life and to the world he knows and has left behind, before he sprints down the road as fast as he can and does not look back.

* * *

He does not remember how much time has passed since he left the house but he is grateful when he finally comes across people who are not undead and not trying to eat him. So far, he has run into trouble a few times with zombies and the baseball bat he carries with him as a weapon turns out to be strong enough to push them off but not solid and sturdy enough to really kill them.

There are three people in the group he meets. They happen to encounter one another when he decides to scavenge for supplies at a looted chemist. (He's getting the hang of taking things from shop shelves without paying now).

"Oh ho," says the middle-aged woman with a cowboy hat as she looks him up and down. Her eyes crinkle as she smiles. "We haven't seen a living person for days!"

"Hi," he greets, automatically returning a smile and relief and happiness soar in his chest. It feels great to speak to somebody alive at last.

"What's your name?" asks the friendly looking older man with the bushy brown moustache standing beside the woman.

He opens his mouth and realises with a shock that he has forgotten his own name. He gives it a second or two to recall it and when it gradually comes back into consciousness, he can't believe his own name sounds foreign to him. Almost a week of isolation, running away from things that can eat him and with almost no contact with actual live human beings have made him forget the basic things about himself. How old was he again? When was the last time he hung out with his friends? What was the last thing his mother said to him? What videogame had he planned to play and record for his Youtube channel? Wait, he has a Youtube channel?

He certainly remembers he calls himself Cry when he's on the internet. And Cry – he realises with a start because how can he even _forget_ – Cry is his gamer persona, Cry knows what to do in these scenarios, knows what the objective of the game is, knows that there are pieces of a puzzle lying around waiting to be solved. He thinks that if he takes on that persona, if he becomes Cry again (oh my god, how long ago was it when I played my last videogame? It felt like a hundred years to me), he is better able to handle the crazy world he lives in now. His mind-set will automatically shift into the appropriate one, the one that follows one route and one goal in mind, the one where he becomes focused and rational and purpose-driven and in control of himself. He thinks – it's like playing _The Walking Dead _or _The Last of Us. _It's just another zombie apocalypse videogame. The important thing right now is to stay alive and not die.

Because if you die, there is no restart button. If you die, you stay dead. Or worse – come back as one of _them._

So the name he gives to this group of people is "Cry" and he deliberately tucks his real name back into the recesses of his mind.

* * *

There is one guy his age in this small group of three people he travels with. His name is Thomas and like him, he has lost his family and is trying to find a way to reunite with them. It's amusing how Thomas doesn't know him at all from Youtube.

"Marilyn and George found me the same way they found you," Thomas explains as they collectively make their way across the thankfully deserted street. "Except I was hanging around my brother's school, hoping to find him."

"Did you find any clue where he could be?" is what he asks Thomas. He feels a buzz of worry in his chest and tries not to think about his missing niece.

"Not much," Thomas sighs wearily. "There was nobody there. No school kids. But I noticed the school buses are missing so chances are the kids were driven away from the chaos. Maybe my brother went with them. I just don't know where they could have gone."

"Don't you worry too much 'bout that," croons Marilyn, the middle-aged cowboy-hat wearing lady walking ahead of them. She cannot help but overhear their conversation. Beside her, the moustachioed man, George, carefully balances an impressive rifle on one arm. He isn't looking back at them but they both know he is listening in on them too because he says, "They must have gone out of the city and headed to the next state. That's where there's help. That's where it'll be safe. It said so on the news."

Beside him, something uneasy forms on Thomas's face, as if he doesn't look quite convinced and Marilyn shifts her crinkling eyes from Thomas to settle on him. "What 'bout you, Cry? Where you headed?"

Cry. Oh yes, he is called Cry now. He needs to get used to actual people calling him this. To him, Cry has always been a nickname, a persona he wears when he's online as well as a part of him that he keeps separate from real life. Now, he takes on that persona just so he can come to terms with a reality that he still cannot fully accept.

"Just out of here," Cry answers. "Also looking for my family. They went missing so maybe they escaped the city while they could."

"It's good to hope," says Marilyn enthusiastically. "It keeps us goin'. I'm expectin' to see my grandson once we get to the next state. Fingers crossed."

Cry finds that he rather likes Marilyn and George. They are optimistic, cheerful people. Although he is sure they are bothered about the chaos happening around them and are worried sick about their families, they don't let this fact bring them down. Because of this, he finds their cheerfulness contagious.

The only thing that seems to keep the group's morale down is Thomas, who remains immune to the couple's optimism. He stays quiet most the time, looking distracted by his own thoughts. Even after Cry coaxes him to reveal more about himself, Thomas goes back into a daze after speaking a few sentences. Cry wants to ask him what's wrong – what's _really _wrong with him – because his initial assumption that Thomas is just worried about his family is shot down after the number of times Marilyn and George keep reassuring him that he will reunite with them once they get out of the state. It isn't just that, Cry surmises. There's something more.

Cry has a feeling that whatever it is that Thomas is thinking about, he does not want to share them when Marilyn and George are around.

Which is why he asks him one night when their group squat at an abandoned house and he knows that Marilyn and George are downstairs, counting their remaining supplies and therefore, cannot hear them.

"You can tell me, man," Cry coaxes again, gently this time. He is willing to be patient for Thomas because he and Thomas are so alike, their ages, the similarity of their family members, their previous lives (alright, not really. Cry spends most of his 'days' from the late night to the early morning playing videogames and making videos) and he wants to help him out, help relieve some of the thoughts that are haunting his mind.

Thomas finally speaks. "I dunno," he says hesitantly at first and Cry raises his eyebrows for him to continue. "It's just… this is some crazy shit, man. I mean, _zombies_? Actual freaking zombies?"

Cry lets out a breath, laughing a little at the absurdity of it all. "Yeah I know, right?"

"And those two," Thomas gasps. It's obvious he is talking about the pair downstairs. "They just don't care, don't seem to mind. There are people eating people out there and they get over this fact and try to get out and leave the state like it's a vacation."

"But isn't that kinda good?" Cry asks. "I mean – yeah, it's fucking crazy that there are zombies running around and the world doesn't make sense anymore but it's good that those two out there have a plan. They know what to do."

"_Do _they though?" Thomas says, scoffing weakly. His voice sounds bitter and defeated in Cry's ears. "What happens when they reach there and the situation's exactly the same? What then? Keep on moving to the next town, city and state and everywhere you go, it's the same thing. People get killed, get bitten and come back. It might not get better at all. There might be no way out of this hellhole. So what's the fucking point?" He doesn't sound angry when he says this. He sounds tired, weary, beaten. Like he's given up.

Thomas's words are not new to him. Cry knows it too, understands what Thomas is saying because he has been exposed to enough zombie apocalyptic stories to know that nothing good really comes out in the end. It just hadn't occurred to him that he is living in one of those stories until now. It's unnerving and terrifying because it makes him think about his life before this, all the good experiences and bad experiences he'd gone through, everything he was and is now and this is where it leads him to – a world where none of that matters. He understands now why Thomas pushes away Marilyn and George's reassurances. Because whatever they do now, the future will remain a bleak one. Either they die at the hands of the undead or continue the struggle of finding ways to survive. It's a simple two-way choice and there is no third option.

Cry does not want to die.

"We keep going," he says firmly to Thomas because he refuses to follow the dark path that the latter's mind has gone to. "It's still early days. We keep going and if we get lucky, we'll see our families again. Don't be like that. Don't give up hope. We'll get through this together." He then adds with a cocky assurance and a playful punch on Thomas's shoulder that his knowledge of zombie apocalyptic videogames will help them deal with what's happening now.

Thomas almost smiles after his rambling and his pathetic attempt at cheering him up. "'Cry', eh?" he hums thoughtfully but his expression still looks a little sad. "What was your name before that?"

* * *

On a cool, misty morning a few days later, Cry sees Thomas step off the edge of a steep drop that plunges twenty feet down into a concrete ditch, right in front of Marilyn and George. They hear his body hit the ground at the bottom. With a gasp, his baseball bat drops from his hand and his feet carry him to the edge where he sees Thomas lying sprawled on his side, his neck bent at an unnatural angle. Waves of shock and horror run through him, the image of Thomas's body disappearing over the side replaying in his mind on loop like a tape recorder.

"Oh my god!" moans George.

"Is he okay? He's not moving!" Marilyn whimpers.

"Thomas, no," Cry whispers. Despite their reassurances, Thomas continued to remain melancholic and unfocused throughout their journey. Cry never suspected his misery to be unbearable enough to result into this, that Thomas would choose death over the possibility of an uncertain future.

After a few minutes of silence and staring, George says, "We have to keep moving."

For once, anger flares in Cry's chest. "What about Thomas?" he says sharply, turning to the two people. "We can't just leave him lying there."

"There's nothing _to _do," George shoots back helplessly. "It's looks like he's broken his neck. He's sure as hell as dead."

"We can't leave him lying there," says Cry again because how _can _they? There are a set of stairs leading down to the ditch about a hundred paces away. They can still reach him. "He was our friend. He needed help. I tried to help him, hear him out, but you two…" this time he fixes his accusative glare onto Marilyn, who seems helpless and feeble as George is. "You two didn't."

There is silence once again and the cheerful charm Marilyn and George always used to exude is absent now, replaced by twin expressions of guilt. Now, they just look like a couple of lost children.

"What do you think we should do, Cry?" Marilyn asks, sounding subdued. It's a little strange to have people much older than him look to him for answers but he enjoys the feeling of authority that he gets while he can. He relaxes a little.

"We should bury him," he says importantly because it's the right thing to do. It shows we're still human, he justifies to himself. That we recognise the value of life, the sadness of parting, we know how to respect the dead. We're still human in this crazy, inhuman world. He motions towards the flight of steps. "We can get down using those."

George hesitates for a bit, turning his head to scan the road they are on. There is nobody around except for the trees, the grass and the wind. The sun is coming up, already clearing away the early morning fog. It is going to be a hot day.

"I think one of us needs to keep a lookout while we bring Thomas up," George suggests. "We might run into some company if we continue to stay put here. Why don't Cry and I go down to get him while you, Marilyn–"

"No, no, I'm comin' down with you," Marilyn suddenly interrupts to their surprise. She seems to have collected some of her composure. "I feel damn guilty about Thomas. We both didn't notice just how bad all this is affectin' him. Why don't Cry stay up here and we go down?"

He watches as George and Marilyn carefully make their way down the concrete steps leading into the large ditch. He contemplates on Thomas's suicide, hardly believing it had happened, mulls over Thomas's words – "_So what's the fucking point?" _– and wonders whether he would go down that road one day, when he is travelling halfway across America on his own, leaving a trail of dead zombies in his wake and realises that this will never end and what's the point anymore, what's the point of fucking living if what lies before him is another trail of zombies to cut through–?

But he sees Marilyn and George down there, walking towards Thomas's body and wonders how long they have been at it, travelling together and seeing the chaos unfold in front of them. How many times have they seen someone they recognise pulled down and mauled by zombies? How often have they thought about their families? How strong was their hope in finding them, in believing that things will get better?

Somehow he thinks about his sister and niece and his cat and his family at home and his friends and his fans (his _fans_ – the people he does not even know who thank him for posting videos and for making them happy and entertained and he loves that he's doing good things in the world) and imagines them thinking about him too, hoping and praying that he is out there and _surviving_ so that one day he will soon be found and saved. The very thought warms his heart, burns away the creeping dark whispers that have infected Thomas and taken him away. There is no way in hell that Cry will be their next victim.

Somehow, his musings lead his gaze to linger onto Thomas's broken body and he realises with a frown that there is no blood staining the concrete ground anywhere. Thomas died when his neck snapped in half. His head didn't break open, hence no blood. Which means–

His stomach lurches unpleasantly. He thinks he sees Thomas's limp arm move.

"George! Marilyn-!" he calls down in alarm. Oh my god, oh my god, he thinks. Why am I so stupid? Why didn't I notice this in the first place? I just told them to go down there. There's nowhere to run if–

But by the time George and Marilyn turn their heads to look up at him, half of Thomas's body rises from the ground and an arm darts out at lightning speed to grab the back of Marilyn's jacket.

Marilyn screams.

George lets out a surprised shout, "What the _fuck_–?"

Thomas – no, not Thomas. He's no longer Thomas. _It's _one of _them _now – sinks its teeth onto Marilyn's leg_. _Dark blood spurts into the air.

Cry yells, "_No!_" and his voice echoes loudly around the concrete valley of the ditch and he stands there stupidly helpless, his baseball bat clutched tightly in his hand. He wants to get down there nowand help them out, wants to rip the zombie off of Marilyn and drag George up the stairs with him and why the hell is he not moving why is he frozen on the spot and just _staring _down at them oh god that thing keeps burrowing its teeth deeper into Marilyn's leg he can almost see bone and she is still screaming bloody murder and George is fucking freaking out why isn't he using his gun oh god why is there so much blood and guts on the ground it's pooling around them what should he do what should he _do?_

The sound of heavy, shuffling footsteps behind him startles him out of his panicked thoughts and when he turns around, he almost topples over the edge of the drop at the sight of at least half a dozen undead creatures staggering towards him, attracted by the noise coming from the ditch. Seeing this new danger so close to him, his mind suddenly becomes clear as water and he is presented with two choices that could mean life or death to him. It is like he is playing _The Walking Dead _again and he has to decide what to do within a fixed time limit.

Only his two choices are as follows: Go down the ditch and help George – or escape and leave him and Marilyn there for dead.

It takes only half a second for Cry to make a decision because he does not have enough time to contemplate on the possible repercussions of each choice. The zombie nearest to him stumbles and its pale, rotten hand which is missing two fingers reaches out, almost touching him.

Cry bolts from the spot.

Guilt rips through him the further away he runs from that place and he thinks, it was _his_ idea that they should go to the bottom of the ditch to retrieve Thomas's body. It was his fault he didn't realise the danger of doing so. It was his fault that he got two people _killed_.

Marilyn and George's screams continue to resonate from a distance. Cry imagines them cursing his name and wants to crack his head open.

* * *

The first time Cry kills a zombie, he lets his anger and guilt for leading George and Marilyn to their deaths become his power. He lets the hatred for these undead creatures, his anger at the unfair world he lives in to fuel the adrenaline running through his veins. He has long abandoned the baseball bat, which lays bent and crooked after many blows, and arms himself with a shovel propped against a fence nearby. He finds it to be much heavier than the bat but far sturdier.

He batters the zombie on the head again and again – he sees that it used to be a blonde woman and he can still see her pretty seashell-shaped earrings – until part of its skull crumples inwards and Cry brings the blade's shovel down onto its neck, plants his foot onto the blade's footrest and stamps on it _hard _until there is a satisfying _crunch_ as head and neck separate. By the time he stands up and stares down at the gory mess he'd made, he realises there is blood on his wrists, on his face, in his hair, on his glasses.

_I can get used to this_, he thinks, wiping his glasses clean with his trembling hands. _It's just like in the videogames. I think I can learn to handle this. I have to move forward and not look back and grieve over my mistakes._

He doesn't know how long time has passed since he ran away from that ditch. He only knows he spent hours thinking extensively about what he had done, what he should have done and the thoughts circle around his head, stopping him from falling asleep. It is only then when he wakes up and is pounced on by a zombie that he snaps and resorts to violence. He feels more composed now that he has disposed the creature with his shovel. He tells himself that he can get back on track on his own, that he will stay in control, that he has to keep his emotions in check. The last thing he wants now is to lose what little sense he has left.

When he shoulders his backpack and picks up the shovel again, he turns and notices a dog watching him.

"Oh!" Cry blurts out in surprise. His voice sounds loud in the still, silent air and it startles the dog, making it retreat a few steps. It is a skinny dog with a dirty white coat and a wet, black nose. Cry can see it has been living rough on the streets. He's surprised there are living animals still lingering around even when the place is crawling with the undead.

"No, no," he says softly, approaching it. "Don't be scared." Poor dog, did its owner leave it here to die?

The closer he gets to it, the further away the dog retreats until finally, it turns tail and runs off. Cry watches it go with a heavy heart.

"There was a dog," he finds himself saying. He doesn't know who he's addressing but he just feels like pointing it out. "A dog running around in this zombie world. Now that's one lucky dog."

He continues his path forward. By now, Cry has learned to move quickly, silently and inconspicuously, to avoid nearing objects which can conceal hidden zombies, to look and listen carefully for signs of their presence. He also avoids living people now. Once he spots a group of travellers in the distance who are going his direction and he forces himself to change course so that they would not meet later on.

He freezes when he thinks he hears a sound behind him and he grips the shovel in his hands and tentatively turns around, expecting to see a zombie. His eyes land on the dirty white dog from earlier on. It is standing a few feet away from him.

"Oh hello," Cry greets, making sure his voice comes out soft and inviting. "Are you following me?"

The dog does not reply but continues to watch him. It does not seem wary or suspicious. It may just be curious of him because he is the first living human it comes across after how many weeks. After making sure the coast is clear, Cry crouches and extends his hand, "Come here. I won't hurt you."

The dog does not move. After some more coaxing and to no avail, Cry gets up to approach it only to have the dog run away from him again. He stares after it in disbelief as it disappears with a flash of its white tail behind a tree.

He turns, picking up the shovel again and continues on his way.

About an hour later, he turns around and sees the dog trailing after him, separated by a few feet.

"Why are you following me?" Cry asks it in mock-frustration. "What's the point of trying to travel with me if we can't even do simple communication? And how does communication look like? You let me pet you of course! We can build a relationship based on trust this way. If you just follow me around like this, it's going to look weird and stalker-ish. I'm going to be looking over my shoulder and thinking there's a fucking zombie behind me when it turns out to be you all along. Don't run away every time I come near you, okay? Are we okay with this?" he takes an experimental step forward and stops when the dog backs away from him.

"No then, huh?" he mutters. "Aw, come on. What's the worst thing I can do to you? No wait, don't answer that, not that you could because you're a dog. Just that I need to know your intentions for following me. Are you tailing me for food, to steal my food supplies? Sorry but I don't tolerate stealing. I am willing to share food but we have to be friends. We need to _communicate_." This is stupid, he thinks. Because the dog is staring at him like _he's_ the stupid one. Cry huffs and lowers the backpack from his shoulder and sets it on the ground. He fishes out a packet of beef jerky that he nicked from someone's fridge and tosses a strip towards the dog. It catches the jerky with its mouth before it even hits the ground and hungrily devours it.

"Ohoho _wow_," Cry laughs, impressed by what he sees. "You're a great catcher!" he praises and proceeds to toss the rest of the strips of beef jerky towards the dog and it catches each and every one perfectly. Once Cry is done, he gets up and leaves – and the dog follows him from behind.

"Oh no, no," Cry says, stopping and waving a disapproving finger at the dog. "I've got no more food," he lies. "I may be impressed by that show you did earlier but if this is what you're following me around for, then you should just scram – _shoo_. Leave me alone."

The dog just stares blankly at him. He slumps his shoulders in defeat.

"Goddamn it," he mutters, and turns back to resume walking.

The dog continues to follow him from behind.

* * *

Time has passed – Cry estimates about two days – since their meeting. Soon enough, he and his strange animal companion begin to settle into an odd arrangement. Although the dog continues to shy away from him whenever he makes an effort to move closer to it, it nonetheless continues to keep him company in his travels, like a stubborn ghost who trails after him during day and lingers around while he sleeps. It happily accepts any of the food Cry decides to share with it and he feels content just watching the dog catch any food item he tosses towards it cleanly in the mouth.

Cry doesn't know the dog's name. He wants to call it Hewie like the white Shepherd from _Haunting Ground_ but somehow the name never sticks. He finds himself berating the dog most of the time, particularly at the simple commands he gives it because the dog doesn't react to them at all. He also finds himself addressing it simply as "Dog."

"Dog, were you really someone's pet?" he asks one time while they walk across a bridge full of abandoned cars. He is careful to keep his voice low and his hearing sharp. "When I tell you to sit, you sit down. When I tell you to roll over, you roll over. When I say speak, you speak – or bark or whatever, like make some sort of noise. If we're supposed to travel together, we've got to start working together. When I mean by working, we got to have each other's backs. If you do good, I will shower you with love and beef jerky. If there is a zombie in front of us and I give the signal, you charge at it and take it down and you get more love and food. Just like Hewie. But no, no. You don't do nothing but follow me around. Come on, Dog – we really need to learn how to communicate. Or something."

The dog continues to remain silent, treading behind him like a shadow.

Eventually, Cry realises it is not too bad to have an animal companion like this, even though the dog never makes a sound at him or comes near him or follows his commands. For one thing, the dog certainly does make a good listener. Cry can praise or berate or cuss or complain at it for as long as he wants and, just as long as he continues to maintain their distance, it seems to stay and listen to whatever it is he has to say.

One night, they camp out in someone's tool shed and Cry tells the dog about his life before all this, spills to it his secrets, recalls his best and worst memories and almost wishes he hadn't. Talking extensively about his past life brings with it a terrible, overwhelming feeling of sadness which grips him by the throat and he wants to break down from the weight of it. He is stopped from doing so when he hears a low-pitched whine coming from the dog, who is sitting still on its haunches. It is the first sound he hears from the animal and he stares at it in surprise. Although they are always separated by a few feet, the dog's stare right now seems different, almost reassuring, and the quiet whine that has rumbled out of it is the first message it sends to Cry, that it understands how he feels, that he should not be sad right now because he isn't alone anymore.

Cry desperately wants to hug it, to wrap its arms around its skinny body, to put his face into its dirty white coat but he knows that if he makes a move, the dog will flee. Instead, he pulls out the remaining half of a stale croissant and tosses it and the dog catches it perfectly in its mouth like a pro.

"Good Dog," he praises, watching it eat.

The next morning, while scavenging the tool shed for anything useful, he finds a revolver concealed behind a shelf full of broken jars. He examines it in his hand, fascinated by the look and feel of it, and checks its cylinder. About half of its cartridges have been used.

"Perfect," he mutters, checking around the area for more ammunition but finds none. He pockets it along with a box of matches and then slips a lock pick set he finds in a toolbox into his backpack before leaving the shed quickly. The dog follows behind him as usual.

About an hour later, they run into trouble. Two zombies have heard them coming and begin staggering towards them, limbs swaying, jaws hanging open. They look like a mother and father and they must have died in the first week because their skin is already decomposing. There is a hole torn in the man's cheek, revealing to them the inner workings of its mouth and jaw. Dried blood cakes the entire front of the woman's dress and her arm is swinging crookedly by her side.

They haven't come across any zombies since Cry's first kill. Because of this, Cry wants to try using the revolver tucked into the waistband of his trousers but the need to preserve cartridges prevents him from doing so. He balances the shovel in his hands instead, ready to strike when the undead couple come close.

"Dog," he says. "Brace yourself." He peers over his shoulder and finds nobody there. The dog had bolted from the scene, leaving him on his own.

"Damn it, Dog!" Cry whines – and cries out in terror when he feels something grab him by the leg.

It is a little girl – a little zombie girl no doubt the child of the couple coming closer towards him, and it had crawled and sneaked up on him while he wasn't looking and grabbed hold of his foot. Cry desperately tries to kick it off but its grip on him is strong. The child-thing is horrible to look at. One of its eyeballs are missing and its little legs were broken in two, jutted in different angles. A shuddering, clicking sound is coming from its throat as it continues to hold onto him. Cry swings his shovel hard to push it off. The first swing smashes its nose, the second kills it instantly. By the time Cry pries his foot out of those rotten little fingers, the undead couple descend on him.

Cry yells and thrashes, tries to push them away, swings his shovel to the nearest zombie he can reach. He is panicking now, moving on pure fear and terror, lashing and beating as he tries to push them off of him. It's difficult, their combined weight is heavy. He is scared he'll lose his balance and fall to the ground, expects to feel a set of hungry teeth rip through his skin and flesh. He yells again, louder, and swings his shovel once more with all his might.

It hits the woman on the side of the face and throws it off of him and he continues swinging until he hits the male zombie too. But he _tilts_, his balance lost following the swing's momentum, his leg crumples and he falls to the grass. The shovel slips out of his grasp.

The male zombie attacks, hands aiming for his throat.

He has just enough sense to pull the revolver from his trousers, pull the hammer back and shoot the zombie right between its dead eyes.

Its face explodes. A mass of guts and brain spatter onto him. Cry flinches at the gunshot's loud noise. His ears ring. His heart pounds hard in his chest.

The unmistakable bark of a dog. _Dog_! He thinks.

Cry kicks the zombie's body away from him and quickly scrambles up to his feet. A few metres away, the gunshot has attracted the attention of the female zombie. It is trying to stagger towards him but is held back by Dog, whose jaws are clamped onto its ankle and who is trying to pull it away from him.

"Dog!" Cry exclaims, surprised and moved by the animal's loyal gesture. Dog is trying to protect him, Dog really does care, Dog is trying to protect him right now. He feels warm, protected, loved.

_We're beginning to communicate, _he thinks.

He needs to help Dog in return and quick. Jumping over the bodies of the two dead zombies, Cry goes to retrieve his shovel before a high-pitched, pained whine fills the air. He turns around and screams when he sees that the female zombie has turned against its attacker and has sunk its teeth into Dog's back, ripping through the dirty white fur, into flesh and blood.

"_Nooooooo_! Nooo, no, no, noooooo!" Cry howls, grabbing the shovel and charging towards it. "Stop it!" he screams, swinging the shovel down onto its head. "Stop it, you fucking– stop it, stop eating him – stop, stop, get off of him, get the fuck off of him, you fucking piece of _shit_. No, _noooo!_" One more swing and it detaches itself from Dog and Cry yells as he brings his shovel down and _stabs _the blade into the middle of its face, feels bones crunching as it smashes into a pulp.

The shovel clatters to the ground. Suddenly, he feels exhausted.

"Dog, _no_," his voice hurts, no his throat hurts, he can barely breathe, his eyes hurt, they sting as he sees Dog lying, dying there. Oh god, there is blood everywhere and Dog's insides are spilling out onto the grass and _she's _still alive yes Dog is a 'she' because Cry's close enough to see it now and she's breathing so hollowly it hurts just to look at her and she's looking at him like she's sorry she can't be with him from now on and just why is this happening this is so unfair they were starting to get along so fucking well–

Cry gives a dry sob, "Dog, _no._" It is the only thing he is capable of saying. He does not know what he can do, there seems to be no way to save her. He can't bandage an open wound like that. He feels helpless again and this is worse than when he left Marilyn and George for dead in that ditch a hundred years ago. What can he do? What should he do?

Dog whines again in pain. Cry brings up a hesitant hand – god, his hand is fucking _shaking_ – and expects Dog to flinch as he leans closer to her. She doesn't move as he approaches. Soon, his fingers touch coarse, matted fur. Her ears feel soft to the touch. She is trembling too, he can feel her warmth diminishing, growing cold. When he strokes her muzzle gently, Dog tilts her head a little and nuzzles into his palm.

Cry breaks down in tears.

He has never cried so hard like this before. He might have had done so in the past, in a life he used to know but that life now feels like a dream he cannot go back to. He cradles Dog's head in his hands and cries into her fur, apologises into her ear, mumbles nonsensical things that mean nothing. When he feels Dog spasm in his arms, he pulls back to see her gaze. She is in terrible pain, he can feel it too and he doesn't want her to die slowly like this. She is looking at him expectantly. He thinks he knows what she wants him to do.

The revolver feels ten times heavier now as he retrieves it and comes back to her. His whole body is shaking, his hands are shaking as he holds it up. _I can't do this_, he thinks. His eyes are stinging again, his vision keeps blurring from the tears. _I have to do this but I can't._

Dog has no strength to lift her head but she is still watching him, waiting for him. Cry presses the barrel of the revolver onto the middle of her head. He hesitates for a long time. Dog whines in pain once more. A tear trickles down Cry's wet cheek. His finger is tense on the trigger. Finally, he closes his eyes and manages to say, "Goodbye."

_And thank you_.

He pulls the trigger and Dog isn't the only one who dies that afternoon.

* * *

_**Now**_

In the abandoned gas station where he passes a blue Ford Fiesta parked outside, he finds a zombie blocking the back door leading to the storeroom where he plans to scavenge for supplies. He takes a minute to decide what to do before he steps out and silently charges forward, his grip on his shovel tightening, the blade raised into the air. His quick footfalls land on the wooden floor panels, making them creak.

There is a loud _clang_ as he forcefully swings the shovel across the zombie's head. His movements are precise, timed, natural – coming from many days of wielding the tool as a weapon. He doesn't flinch at the sight of the zombie's head where its side and ear are dented in from the blow. He doesn't feel horrified or disgusted as it lays there on the floor after being knocked off its feet. He stamps his foot onto its chest and doesn't hesitate as he stabs the shovel blade onto the middle of its face with enough force to split it. It's his signature move now. Blood coats the walls, his shovel, his hands. He steps back and exhales, relaxes.

And _jumps_ when the doorknob of the storeroom rattles before it flies open and something charges out of the storeroom with a yell. Cry steps back and automatically raises his shovel to swing it but stops because the other person halts too, his yell dying in his throat.

It's a man. The first living man he comes across for so many days. He is brandishing a battered, dusty broom in one hand while holding a metal bucket in the other. He is tall and skinny and his face is hidden behind shaggy blonde hair and a full goatee which is not bushy enough to conceal his bright blue eyes.

For a long time, they stare at each other in disbelief. Until the shaggy man opens his mouth and nervously says in a voice and in words that are entirely all too familiar:

"Heheh… uh, how's it goin', bro?"


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you all for the reviews/faves/follows! I hope you will continue to stick around. Come and enjoy some Pewdiepie.

* * *

**02.**

_**Three weeks ago**_

Apprehension, like panic, tends to spread like wildfire among big crowds of people. It isn't strong enough to compel them into action, but it does unconsciously draw them into small huddles, as if they are bracing themselves for the impact of an oncoming hurricane. Right now, whispers are being excitedly passed on from one person to another with such speed that it reaches other unsuspecting ears, affecting them with the same feeling too.

"Have you heard the news?"

"…Terrible riot going on at some college…"

"…People seem to be attacking each other…"

"Don't worry. The police will sort it out…"

"…I better call my oldest daughter. She goes to college two states over so I should tell her to be careful…"

"Damn, I'll feel much better once I get on a plane back home…"

Felix doesn't like apprehension but he feels it right now even though he is sitting far away from the crowds, away from television screens broadcasting the latest news report about the riot. He doesn't know what kind of riot it is and it's uncertain when it started because the details are a little blurry. What he does gather from the snippets of conversation he overhears from other people is that it sounds serious.

Right now, he has four more hours to wait until the next available flight back to Europe. He has long since thrown his first flight ticket into a bin somewhere because he'd forgotten the departure time of his plane and only arrived at the airport a minute after the boarding gate closed. About two hours later, he is still here now, tucked in a corner of the airport waiting area near the travelators, trying to appear inconspicuous in case random people happen to recognise him as the Youtube star, Pewdiepie.

He is just staring at the nearest flight board which presents the flight times of the day when the Tannoy system ding-dongs and a woman's voice comes through the speakers, "Ladies and gentlemen, we regret to inform you that all domestic and international flights are delayed until further notice."

Simultaneously, all the details on every flight board or television screen change their various statuses to "DELAYED".

Cries of outrage erupt from the passengers around him. One man actually tosses his half-eaten burger onto the floor in anger.

By then, Felix has had enough of waiting at this airport, waiting in this uneasy atmosphere that everyone is feeling thanks to the reports of the ongoing riot. He knows it will get worse if he stays here any longer especially when the passengers around him are about to fly into a rage regarding their delayed flights.

So he leaves the airport with his bags and ducks into a taxi. Ten minutes later, he steps into a hotel nearby and checks himself in. The news channel is the first thing he sees when he switches on the TV and this time he witnesses exactly what people have been whispering about at the airport. At some university college located at some state whose name he doesn't catch, there are reports of a disturbance which seems to originate in the college's Biology Department and whatever it is that's happened has spread among many college students, turning them "hysterical" and "violent". In a few hours, the hysteria then hit the students and staff members of several departments, leading to a riot which continues to ripple through the rest of the college campus.

The hotel phone rings, the noise cutting through the newscaster's voice, and he absent-mindedly picks it up, "Hello?"

"Gene, is that you?" says a man's voice at the other end.

"Er, no," Felix answers.

"What–? Oh, seriously? He left already?" The voice harrumphs. "Sorry, I'm from the room next door. My friend was staying in your room. He must've checked out and didn't tell me."

"It's cool, man," is his reply and before he can hang up, the man says, "Wait, are you watching the news right now?" He must have heard the sound of the TV through the phone line.

"Yeah?"

"About the riot?" Felix thinks he hears something in the man's voice. It's not the same apprehension that the people at the airport are feeling, it's something else. Like dread. Like fear.

When he confirms, the line goes silent for a while and then the man says, "Take my advice, man. You should get out of this city while you can. Something big and bad is about to happen and it's coming from that riot."

"I was waiting for my flight to Europe," Felix explains. He does not know why he is telling a stranger this but the urgency in the other's tone compels him to speak. "But all the flights in the airport got delayed for some reason."

"It's because of the riot," the man supplies. "The news say they've got the situation under control but it's not true. It's not true at all. In fact, it's getting worse by the second. Let me tell you another thing too – the riot? It's not a riot at all. What kind of riot has people attacking and eating each other? Yep, you heard me right there." He must have heard Felix make a noise of disbelief.

"What do you mean by people eating–" Felix begins because it sounds crazy. He shoots a glance over at the TV screen where a field reporter is interviewing an eyewitness. In the background, there are several police cars and vans parked outside the college gates which have been forcefully shut to contain the mob.

"I have a friend who goes to that college. He saw it first-hand," the man interrupts. "He knows a guy in the Biology Department. They can't stop it spreading, he says. That's why he called me, told me everyone's trying to keep this thing under control, keeping it all hush-hush to the world. That's why the news isn't telling you anything. The stuff on the internet sounds more plausible but we don't know which is truth and which is rumour. All I know is that I have to tell everyone to get away while they still can."

"What do you mean?" his heart is starting to pound fast in his chest. He licks his dry lips. "What's going to happen?"

"I don't know," the man admits. "I honestly don't. But what I _do_ know is that it's not safe right now. You said you were supposed to head to Europe, right? You should find some other way to get out of the country if you can. Rent a car. Drive to Mexico or something. Just get away from here."

The words linger in the air. Felix watches the screen where a gap between the police vehicles reveal that the college gates are filled with rioting students and staff members pushing against the bars. There is something strange and twisted about their faces. They look deathly pale and some of them look– is that _blood_? Is it just him or is that girl missing an ear? And that man – his face looks like it's been mauled by a bear. Could it be true? That people are actually eating each other…

"…Like zombies," Felix finds himself murmuring in disbelief. He isn't aware that he is still on the phone with his neighbour until the man says, "That sounds about fucking right."

* * *

He rents a car – a blue Ford Fiesta with a crumpled bumper, and fills it with his bags and the stuff he swipes from his hotel room like toiletries, towels and the snacks and drinks from the mini-fridge. While he drives, he tells himself to avoid the main roads and highways because once the world realises just how out of control this not-riot is going on, they will start clogging up the roads with cars in a desperate attempt to escape elsewhere. There is GPS in his car but he decides to rely on the road map atlas he finds in the glove compartment. He doesn't know where to go but he knows that he just needs to keep driving and not stay in one place for too long. Just so until the upcoming chaos dies down.

About an hour in, he decides to try calling home or Marzia but the phone signal is bad on this minor road. When he tries calling some of his friends who live in America, he actually gets through when Ken picks up.

"Hel-_lo_?" Ken sing-songs from the other end.

"He-hey Ken!" he greets and suddenly, the call disconnects and all he hears next is the sound of the dial tone. At first, he thinks that Ken is fucking with him but when he tries calling again, it doesn't go through. After three more attempts, he gives up. Stupid phone signal, he thinks, shaking his phone indignantly. He accidentally swipes his thumb over the screen and his Text Message application pops up, showing him the last message he sent a few hours ago, saying that he was on the way to the airport to catch his flight back to Sweden. With a sigh, he tosses the device onto the passenger seat and turns on the radio.

Several hours later, he devises a plan. If one airport is closed, he will try another one just so he can board any available plane that will take him out of the country. He also realises that he is terrible at reading road maps and the GPS in his car isn't helping much either. The device keeps directing him to main roads and highways and whenever he spots ones which are slowly piling up with queuing vehicles, he quickly finds an exit or a U-turn to escape going into a congested road.

Unfortunately, repeatedly diverting his route whenever he spots a traffic jam scrambles his sense of direction and he isn't even sure where the hell he is or whether he's left the state. He ends up driving around in circles and once he stops at a gas station, he has trouble understanding the cashier's words because of his accent when he pays for fuel and a paper bag full of supplies.

The news he listens to on the radio tells him of the (not-)riot's progress. Although the hysteria has broken out of the college and has spread into the town, the authorities _assure _that the situation is under control and that people should not be worried. This assurance doesn't remain long once late evening arrives. That is when real chaos breaks out and panic spreads among the people. There are announcements of the possibility of evacuation, of stocking up supplies, of staying indoors to be safe, of phone lines and the internet connection breaking down. When Felix turns on the headlights the moment it becomes too dark to see, he notices cars overtaking and roaring past him, all heading down towards the highway, to anywhere that's far enough from the pandemonium.

Anxiety builds and looms over his mind. He thinks,this has nothing to do with me. I don't even live here so I shouldn't even be part of whatever the fuck's going on. All I want right now is to go home. How the fuck do I do that if I can't even find a fucking airport around here? You, Map, and you, stupid GPS, I am disappointed in you both. You had one job. One _job_. And you fucked up. Both of you. Right now, I'm freaking lost and I've been driving around in circles for how many hours and everywhere I look, there are lots of cars around and if there's a traffic jam, we'd know for sure that in the other direction, that's where all the crazy shit is going on, am I right, huh, Map?

"Of course, Pewdie. You're the genius."

"Exactly," he agrees and suddenly realises that he has been speaking aloud in the car and that he had just given the road map which he'd tossed carelessly onto the dashboard a voice.

"Huh," he says because he doesn't usually become Pewdiepie when he's alone on his own. A few minutes later, he begins to berate the GPS again for giving him unwanted directions that lead him nowhere. The GPS apologises to him for its irrational behaviour and justifies its actions by saying it had only done so because it wants take him to an isolated place so that they can be alone together.

* * *

It is only one afternoon a few days later while driving down a dusty road that he sees his first zombie.

Of course, at that time he doesn't know it isa zombie. From the back, it looks like a backpacking girl walking on the side of the road. She looks so alone in this vast, empty place that he can't help but slow down the car and see whether she wants a ride.

"Er, hi there," he greets when he lowers the window to speak to her. "Do you need a…?"

When she turns her head to look at him, he sees that her face is albino white, her eyes are bloodshot and her lips are gone, the skin eaten away revealing only gums and teeth.

"Holy fucking hell-!" he actually _jumps _in his seat and slams his foot onto the accelerator and zooms off down the road, far away from the girl. "Holy fucking hell, GPS. What the hell was that? Did you see her face? She had no–" he gulps, trying to calm himself down. "She had no _mouth_. That's disgusting. She can't be… she can't be dead, right? Or undead? She's a fucking zombie, right? Is this actually happening?"

"It's totally happening, Pewdie," Map answers from the backseat.

"I am _not _fucking talking to you," Pewdie snaps. "Remember when GPS's batteries ran out and I had to look into your pages for directions? You said I should use this road but the problem is that I couldn't _find _it anywhere and ended up driving past the same McDonald's Drive-Thru three times."

"It isn't _my _fault that you're bad at directions," Map grumbles.

"Just shut up, Map," he mutters in reply and he knows it's stupid that he's talking to inanimate objects like this and giving them voices like he does in the _Amnesia _games but it helps prevent the interior of the car from becoming too quiet. Some time ago, the radio stations that broadcasted the news had buzzed into dead silence and he does not know what is happening in the world right now. There is no way to contact anyone by phone or go online and every place he stops by seems abandoned. The backpacking girl – no, _zombie_ is the first person he comes across on the road for many days.

Whatever the situation, he knows now that there is no way he can go to an airport. If a zombie apocalypse is on them, chances are that places with big crowds will become hit with the uprising fast, including airports. There's no way out of the country now. What he needs to do is to find ways to survive and be safe until help arrives. He needs to start thinking about stocking up gas and food and other supplies. He needs to start thinking about weapons he can use to defend himself.

"Map," he grudgingly calls because unlike GPS, who spends most of its time flirting with him, Map actually gives him good ideas. "We need a new plan."

* * *

A wooden oar, he decides, is a stupid weapon. So is a pitchfork.

His Ford Fiesta, which he conveniently names Bluey, is just within arm's reach if he can just get this fucking zombie off of his pitchfork. He didn't see it coming when he stopped by a farmhouse to scavenge for supplies. There had been a wooden oar lying around and he was just picking it up when the zombie came at him. He had been so shocked to see it that he accidentally swung it round and hit it, knocking it off its feet, feeling the oar break into pieces from the impact. The zombie was getting up on its feet, probably not pleased with getting hit like that, and there was no other option but to grab the nearest thing he could reach – a pitchfork, to fend it off.

Except the only thing he could accomplish with this tool was skewering the zombie but not killing it.

"Okay, get off," Pewdie commands nervously, shaking the pitchfork because he wants to try stabbing it in the head to see if that option works. The zombie does not obey but continues to remain stuck in the pitchfork's tines, hands reaching out to try and grab him. It used to be a farmer but something had eaten a chunk of his shoulder and arm. Pewdie gives the pitchfork another shake but to no avail and decides he should just drop the item and make a run for it. Bluey is calling for him, urging him to hurry up so that they can make their escape away from this place.

He gives a forceful shove and lets go of the pitchfork. He doesn't wait to see the zombie fall back because he's already running, diving into the car and starting the engine. His hands are shaking from the narrow escape and he clumsily backs the car up, intending to change directions, before he puts his foot on the gas and screeches when the car rams into the unsuspecting zombie head-on, snapping the handle of the pitchfork it is attached to. There is a horrible _crunch_ as the tyres run over the body and Pewdie speeds up once he hits tarmac again.

"That was a close one," he gasps, feeling sweat run down his forehead. His hands are still shaking as he grips the steering wheel. "That was so fucking close. I could have _died_."

After a while, he tells Bluey, "Let's never stop at a farmhouse ever again."

* * *

Time passes and days blur into weeks as Pewdie keeps on driving. He now only stops when he needs to, when gas or food and water run out or when he decides to add another makeshift weapon into the collection he keeps in the trunk of his car.

He rarely sees people anymore when he's on the road apart from a convoy of trucks he spots in the distance once. What he does see is a lot of abandoned cars – and he avoids roads with these like the plague – as well as zombies scattered around the area, staggering up and down the streets with no destination. They perk up in attention when Bluey roars past them but they are too slow to catch up once Pewdie hits the gas to get as far away from them as he can.

It is lonely on the road, even when he does continue to speak to the inanimate objects in his car. His phone has long since died and he sometimes finds himself staring longingly at it when he parks the car to the side of the road to rest for a moment. He wants to call home, desperately wants to call his family, his friends, Marzia, his dogMaya; wants to know if they're safe, whether Europe and the rest of the world are suffering from the same uprising or are luckily safe from it. He thinks he will give anything in the world just to hear their familiar voices again.

Food is beginning to run out again, he discovers one evening when he parks the car in the most secluded spot he can find. Torchy, his flashlight, informs him he's down to two packets of biscuits and a bottle of whisky while Map adds from the floor of the backseat that Pewdie needed to cut down from eating too much.

"Don't tell me what to do," Pewdie snorts. "I eat what I want, whenever I want."

"You can't eat once you've run out of food," Map reminds him. "Think about it. Once all the food's gone, who's going to replace it? Remember when the world was normal and you get to buy your crisps from a convenience store and those crisps were manufactured from factories and shipped all over the country? Now think about the situation now. Zombies everywhere so they'll be no more people growing potatoes and making crisps from factories and shipping them in trucks to all the shops just so you can buy and eat them. You've got to start being economical on food, Pewdie. Otherwise, you won't last very long."

"Look at me," Pewdie huffs once he turns off the flashlight and lies in the backseat of the car in the darkness. The night is eerily silent outside and he does not dare make too much noise to disturb it. "I'm talking to a road map with my own voice and telling myself not to waste food. I think I've gone crazy."

He finds an abandoned gas station the next day and parks his car outside the store, locking it before slipping the keys into his pocket. He enters through the front door and sees the dark interior covered in dust. Pewdie switches on his flashlight and a ball of light leaps out to land onto the shelves, which he finds are swept clean and the cash machine emptied. There is nothing worth taking here except that there is a door at the very end which probably leads to the back room. Or a storeroom.

"What do you think, Torchy?" he asks. "Should we take a look in there?"

"I dunno," Torchy squeaks in his hand. "Maybe we should go back."

"You're such a wuss, you know," Pewdie cackles mockingly, walking closer to the door. His footsteps make the wooden floor panels creak under his weight. Just as he reaches it, he suddenly senses someone in the room with him and when he swings around to shine his flashlight onto the intruder, he startles when he finds a zombie there, the remains of its smashed nose covered in dried blood.

"Oh shit!" he swears and grapples at his belt only to realise that he was stupid enough to come in here without a weapon. The undead man is already staggering towards him, arms reaching out to grab him.

Pewdie backs away and reaches for the doorknob of the backroom. Please be unlocked, he prays and turns it and the door gives away. He stumbles inside and slams the door shut, locking it and stepping back.

And flinches when the zombie begins banging on the door from the other side. He frantically looks around the storeroom and finds no doors or windows which provide an escape route. He is trapped in here.

"Shit, shit," he mutters, pacing around the little storeroom. "This is all your fault, Torchy. Why didn't you remind me to bring a weapon?"

For once, his flashlight stays silent in his hand. Pewdie gives it a forceful shake but does not toss it aside. Instead, he pockets it and begins to properly examine the room for something useful to use. The zombie continues to bang on the door outside.

"Right, what can we take in here?" he murmurs frantically. There are shelves here stacked with canned food and drinks which he picks up and quickly stashes into his bag. Once that is done, he turns his attention to finding some sort of weapon he can use to kill the zombie outside. He finds a broom and a metal bucket in a corner and picks them up.

"Broom, are you strong enough to take on that zombie outside?" Pewdie asks it and the broom shivers in his grasp. "I'll take that as a yes." He peers at the metal bucket in his other hand and decides it doesn't need asking. He begins to hatch a plan.

"Alright, bros," he tells the two items quietly. "This is what we're going to do. We're going to charge through the door and surprise that sonuvabitch. Bucket, you attack its face, especially its mouth and make sure you cover it so that it can't try to eat me. Broom, you stab it down to the ground. We might not kill this zombie but at least it'll buy me some time to escape. Are you ready?" he thinks he hears a loud _clang_ outside the storeroom but he's too preoccupied with preparing himself for the attack. His hands are shaking again and he takes a couple of deep breaths to steady his nerves. Outside, something goes _crunch_ in an unpleasant way.

_Here we go_, Pewdie thinks, straightening up and wrapping his hand on the doorknob. He turns it and it unlocks, and he charges through it with a battle cry.

And stops when he finds no zombie on the other side of the door. There is someone there though, a living person, and he is covered in blood and guts and holding up a bloody shovel. They stare at each other in disbelief for a long time and Pewdie thinks he needs to say something to break this awkward silence between them.

"Heheh… uh, how's it goin', bro?" is the first thing he says to the first living person he comes across after three weeks of surviving the zombie apocalypse on his own.

* * *

The last person that Cry expects to come across in this fucked up reality is _this _guy.

Which is why he tenses when the other man cautiously approaches him, lowering his broom and bucket, and peers at him in the dim light. He sees the spark of recognition light up in his eyes.

"You are fucking kidding me," comes the man's response. His voice is full of disbelief as he drops the items he holds in his hands onto the floor. "Tell me you are fucking kidding me and this is some fucked up dream induced by the fear I had because I was going to die at the hands of a zombie." He turns his head and jumps back at the sight of bloody zombie remains by his feet. "Holy fucking – what the hell? Did you kill it?" he asks, pointing and looking uneasy.

"Of course I killed it," Cry cannot help but answer haughtily as he lowers his shovel once he's sure the danger has passed. He pauses, and then asks, "Are you real?"

"As real as I'll ever be," a brilliant grin breaks out of that shaggy goatee, unkempt after three weeks of no shaving. It's shocking to see such a sincere smile after so many days of solitude and darkness. Then, the grin fades a little, "Do you not remember me?"

_Remember September_? A memory flickers through Cry's mind for a second before it disappears. Of course he remembers who it is. He just cannot _believe _it.

"Pewds–" he begins but is suddenly cut short when he feels a long arm wrap around his shoulders and he is pulled into an awkward hug. The warmth of another body pressing against his is even more shocking than seeing the smile, and he stands stiffly still in the embrace, not daring to breathe. He wants to shy away from the contact but he can't.

"Cry!" Pewdie exclaims into his ear. His voice is loud and familiar and it's been so, so _long_ since he's heard a voice from his past. He doesn't return the hug and doesn't really need to because Pewdie quickly lets him go with a nervous laugh, "Whoops. Sorry 'bout that. How-? Why are-?" he struggles before settling with, "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Getting supplies," Cry answers straightforwardly, but Pewdie is shaking his head.

"No, no. I mean, how are you still alive?"

Cry frowns. "What kind of question is that? I think I should be asking _you _why the fuck you're still in America. I thought you went home."

"Missed my flight," Pewdie replies sheepishly. "Then all the planes were delayed. Zombies started happening outside. So, you know, I had to get out."

"Huh," is Cry's reply.

"But you're _here_ now," the grin is back and Cry thinks that Pewdie looks hilarious in that goatee because he resembles a hobo living on the streets. "And it's totally great to see you again. Hey, let's travel together. It'll be just like _No More Room in Hell _or whatever fucking zombie game we co-op'd together in the past. Wait, _do_ you want to travel together? Or… or you're okay on your own…?"

"Oh!" After a pause, it occurs to Cry then what it is that Pewdie is offering him. The prospect sounds so incredibly tempting and Cry finds he's fed up with going on this journey all on his own. It's been so long since Thomas, since Marilyn and George, since Dog. It's been far too long since anyone really.

"Oh?" Pewdie isn't sure what Cry's utterance means. The look on his face almost makes him smile.

"It means yes, of course," Cry clarifies. "Let's do this. Let's travel and kill zombies together."

"Fuck yeah," Pewdie agrees and fishes out a set of car keys from his pocket. "I take it you haven't properly met Bluey yet?"


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks everyone for the reviews/faves/follows! I hope you're having a great time romping through this tale. Get ready for some zombie action. (Or get ready to be super quiet if you want to live a little longer).

Special shout-out to BeautysHarlequin for her lengthy review. Appreciate it!

* * *

**03.**

In the next two days after their unexpected reunion, Cry spends most of his time while Pewdie drives sleeping in the passenger seat of the car, his head lolled sideways onto his shoulder, one hand clutching a Swiss army knife attached to his belt. He sleeps so soundly that he doesn't move from his position for many hours.

Pewdie doesn't mind it when this happens because he secretly agrees with both Map and GPS that their newest guest undoubtedly needs the sleeping time. During the hours when Cry is awake, he becomes highly alert, shooting wary glances at anything their car passes outside. His tensed state does not disguise the fact that he looks sleep-deprived and weary. Pewdie doesn't blame him for being this way. Cry looks like he's been sleeping rough for a while and has probably sacrificed a lot of his time being constantly on the lookout instead of resting. So Pewdie passes the hours when Cry sleeps humming songs to himself or quietly berating GPS for its sudden interest in their new passenger.

"But Pewdie, he's so handsome," GPS purrs. The device stopped working weeks ago but this doesn't stop Pewdie from talking to it once in a while.

"I thought you liked me more," Pewdie points out in a low murmur. He doesn't want to wake Cry and he certainly doesn't want Cry listening in on his and GPS's conversation. "What's so special about him anyway?"

"It's the glasses, Pewdie," GPS explains. "If you hadn't broken yours and maybe worn them once in a while, you'd still be my number one."

"That wasn't my fault by the way–"

"That was totallyyour fault," Map interrupts from somewhere underneath Cry's seat. "Because you _sat_ on them."

"Would you please shut _up_, Map," Pewdie groans exasperatedly and stops speaking altogether when Cry stirs a little from his seat but does not move again.

Once Cry wakes up, that's when Pewdie becomes animated, much more animated than he usually is when he's alone with the inanimate objects in his car. One late morning, when they exchange anecdotes about the day this zombie hell crashed into their lives, Pewdie spins for Cry a dramatic tale, complete with over-the-top voices and sound effects, of his being stranded at the airport, his meeting with the mysterious caller who warns him of the upcoming danger and his escape out of the city in a rented blue Ford Fiesta. He only stops rambling on and on about his adventures when Cry interrupts him.

"So you escaped before it started going all to shit," Cry bottom-lines it perfectly. Pewdie can see that he looks a lot better after catching up some hours of sleep. "Before the zombies broke out of that college and started spreading through cities. And then you spent all these weeks just driving around? Whatever happened to the dude who warned you about this?"

He'd forgotten about him. Pewdie barely remembers how the voice sounded like. He never did wonder who the man behind it might have been, whether he was a college student or was already working. He wished he'd asked him and thanked him when he had the chance. "Don't know," Pewdie answers a little ruefully. "I hope he made it out alright. He sort of saved my life after all." He stays silent for a moment before he asks Cry brightly, "Where were _you_ when this started? How did you get out?"

"Woke up late," Cry replies and is it him or do those words sound a bit forced? "I was at home. So I holed up in there for a while. Then I left before it got bad. Been wandering around ever since." The words hang in the air between them and Pewdie has a strange feeling that there is more to this story than what Cry lets on and wonders why he isn't saying anything more.

He lets his mind go back to their reunion, remembers the shock of meeting one another, recalls seeing a blood-stained Cry standing over the remains of a zombie, a shovel in his hands. "So how many have you killed?" Pewdie asks casually. He doesn't need to mention who it is he is talking about.

Cry shrugs nonchalantly and answers in that same offhand manner, "One or two. Maybe a few."

"_Really_?" Pewdie says incredulously and doesn't believe it's the truth. He's picked up Cry's shovel before, taking note of its weight and movements when he tries swinging it and finds it a heavy thing to hold and balance at the same time. You need to have had a lot of practice if you're able to smash a zombie's skull with one blow. "You're kidding, right? You killed, like a _few_?"

Cry shrugs in reply – and there it is again, the sense that there is something more that's not being said except this time it is silence that awkwardly hangs in the air instead of unfinished words. Pewdie isn't sure what to make of it. It's odd, he realises, that Cry seems to speak only when the need arises. It wasn't like that in the past. They used to rant on and on about things to the point where they overlap each other's words without even knowing it.

Or maybe Pewdie is just imagining things. He hasn't seen Cry for a long time after all.

Either way, he doesn't point any of this out so he says instead, "Wow Cry, you must have a talent for killing zombies."

Cry snorts and warily eyes a lone zombie that lifts its head to stare at them as they drive past it, "Hm. Yeah, maybe I do."

They stop for a while, parking behind a giant billboard to conceal the car from view, just so they can eat some lunch. Cry doesn't feel comfortable with the idea of eating outside where they are exposed to the elements and possibly any wandering undead but Pewdie insists it's safe for now, as long as they don't stay too long in one place. "I dothis all the time," he says, hoping to sound reassuring. "You think I drive all night without any rest? I make sure the place is totally empty before I park Bluey. Besides, it's good to get out once in a while."

When Cry looks unconvinced, he adds, "Don't worry about it, Cry."

It's an offhand comment, one that automatically comes out of his mouth without much thinking, but he's satisfied that the familiarity of it brings something of a smile to Cry's face.

"Okay," says Cry with a sigh, like he really is trying not to worry. "What's for lunch?"

Pewdie digs into his backpack and comes out with three cans of sliced peaches. "Here," he says and hands two of those cans to Cry. "You look like you need it." He isn't joking when he says it. The past three weeks have not been kind to Cry. Apart from being sleep deprived, Cry has also lost much of his weight. Pewdie guesses he's not faring too well either even though Map accused him of using up too many of his supplies at a given time.

A few days later, Cry discovers the road map buried underneath his seat and dives into it. He doesn't emerge until he says, "There's some sort of lake, about a couple of miles ahead. Let's stop there for a while and refill our water supply."

"Isn't there a town nearby?" Pewdie asks absent-mindedly, keeping the steering wheel steady as he takes a second to peer at the map in Cry's lap.

"Not for another hundred miles or so," says Cry, and Pewdie thinks it's not too bad to have someone suggest a destination for him. It certainly beats the places that were proposed by Map and GPS (or himself) anyhow.

Pewdie steps on the gas and away Bluey goes.

* * *

Cry realises one thing after a few days of travelling with Pewdie – that he isn't much of a good travelling companion.

Although they fared off rather well during their chance encounter, when it got down to travelling in a car with the other man, Cry either sleeps for hours, awkwardly overhears Pewdie speak in two or three different voices with himself when he's half-awake, or, if Pewdie is speaking to him, unable to produce sentences long enough to constitute a speech.

He doesn't understand how surviving three weeks into a zombie apocalypse can make him socially awkward with people again.

He feels a little bad about it because he should be grateful, ecstatic that he isn't going through this shit alone anymore and that someone he knows is alive and well, but even he can see that his own demeanour is worrying Pewdie. He sees it from the way Pewdie nervously fills in any of the silences that Cry falls into after he answers questions with curt, concise words. He sees it in the way Pewdie sometimes shoots looks of concern at him when he thinks he isn't looking. Once he even catches Pewdie speaking to what he believes is the road map lying on his lap when Cry is half-asleep.

"I don't know, Map," Pewdie's voice is quiet but Cry can hear him perfectly. It's late in the night and Pewdie decides that they should stop the car for a while before reaching their lake destination the morning after. "He's been really quiet lately. He just seems so tense all the time. Remember when we stopped to eat? He actually jumped when a branch broke from that tree."

"It wasn't nice of you to laugh at him, you know," Cry guesses this must be the voice Pewdie gives to the map. "Give the guy a break."

"I didn't mean to laugh," Pewdie says apologetically. "I was surprised at just how tense he is. Wonder what happened that made him like that?"

A lot of things, Pewds, Cry says silently to himself. Things I've seen and felt that you didn't go through when you spent those three weeks of hell just driving around. Things I've done that I don't think you'd want to know.

"Give him time," Pewdie says as the map's voice. "He's gone through a lot. He'll open up one day."

"I hope so," Pewdie answers. "It's not good keeping things bottled up all the time. Might drive you crazy. Sometimes you need to spill it all out."

"And then you start talking to road maps and flashlights," the 'map' finishes for him.

"Just shut up, Map."

They finally reach the lake the next morning when, under Cry's guidance, Pewdie takes a small road which zigzags through a small forest. It eventually opens up to a pebbled beach circling a large expanse of clear water. It's secluded enough and far away from nearby towns that it hasn't yet been hit by zombies and the sounds of nature thankfully prevents the area from becoming too eerily silent.

"Wow, this is a good spot to rest," Pewdie praises approvingly as he gets out of the car to survey their surroundings. "Well done, Cry."

It's sunny and warm enough that Cry announces he's going to wash his dirty, blood-stained clothes. When he gets out a couple of soap bars, he tosses one to Pewdie along with a new safety razor he extracts from a packet of three.

"You look like you need it," he points out offhandedly at the other's blank expression. When he turns to stuff the razor packet back into his bag, he hears Pewdie let out an offended squawk. Yes, it's definitely a _squawk_.

"What does _that _mean? I look like I need it?" Pewdie looks scandalised, holding up both soap bar and razor in each hand. "I happen to _like _my beard, 'kay thanks."

"I can barely see your face, Pewds," Cry says and somehow it sounds a little funny when he says it out in the open. Pewdie looks even more scandalised after that comment. Cry finds himself adding, "You look like a homeless person."

Pewdie squawks again, and it makes Cry's lip twitch upwards into a smile. Then he dramatically flicks his blonde bangs out of his face, spins on his heel and walks off, waving dismissingly, "You're just _jealous_."

When he returns though, the shaggy goatee is gone and Cry can see the familiar features of his face again. He can also see the numerous nicks and cuts that Pewdie obtained from trying to shave a lot of hair off his face without the aid of a mirror. The expression he is pulling as he drags his feet closer to Cry, who has stripped down to only his underwear and is crouched over the water, rinsing soap out of his clothes, reminds him so much of a funny .gif he'd seen on Tumblr that he feels something rise up in his chest, bubbling up his throat and bursts out of his mouth before he can hold it in.

The next thing he knows, he's _laughing_ at Pewdie's face.

Cry has not laughed for weeks. He has forgotten how to.

He can't stop the tickling feeling in his stomach, the bubbling in his chest, the giggling that erupts from his lips. He _can't_ now that he's realised he is laughing for the first time in such a long while. He can't because Pewdie's face changes to that of bewilderment before he, too, breaks into laughter and then they're laughing together and they really shouldn't be this loud because their voices are echoing around the trees but Cry can't stop if Pewdie keeps laughing like that and now his chest hurts but in a good way and he can't breathe wow what is air my stomach hurts–

"Cry, you need to stop," Pewdie gasps, doubling over and clutching his own stomach. They eventually calm down and Pewdie is rubbing at his eyes. "Oh wow," he says, still gasping for breath. "_Wow_, I never thought I'd hear that laugh again, you know."

"Me either," Cry manages to say. His cheeks hurt from the laughing and he reaches up to massage it. "Anyway, are you okay?" he asks, motioning towards the nicks on Pewdie's face. "I'm sorry I don't have any aftershave."

"God, no way. Not having any of that. I don't want to burn my face off," says Pewdie. He makes some sort of complicated gesture at his face, pushing his hair back when it falls into his eyes, and asks, "When was the last time _you_ shaved, Cry?"

"A couple of days ago," Cry answers. "Why?"

"Oh, I dunno," Pewdie says with a shrug. "Maybe _you _look like a hobo too."

"Oho, who's the one with the _full _beard just ten minutes ago?"

"Don't diss my beard, bro."

"You don't _have _a beard anymore, _bro._"

"How dare you," Pewdie mock-sniffs. "I spent two minutes mourning for that beard."

"Whatever," Cry says, laughing, and he feels pretty good right now. It's quiet and peaceful here and safe enough to stay and rest for a couple of hours without getting disturbed by zombies or other people. He feels good now that he's bickering with Pewdie again over such a petty thing as his goatee. He feels good that something has broken through the awkward air that exists between them since their reunion.

I can do this, he thinks. I can reconnect with my friends, even if it takes a while. We're going to be okay.

"Are you going to wash your clothes too?" Cry decides to continue their conversation. He wants to keep talking, wants to make things better between them. He's grateful that it's Pewdie who makes him laugh so hard that he can't breathe.

"I dunno," Pewdie says, shrugging. His face breaks into a grin. It looks much more brilliant now that his face isn't hidden behind his hair. "Oh Cry," says Pewdie breathlessly as he flutters his eyelashes. "Are you offering to wash my clothes for me?"

"Fuck no," Cry laughs again. He tosses Pewdie a fresh soap bar and points to the water. "Get to it, soldier."

* * *

They end up spending the entire day at the lake and it's a good thing because it gives them a chance to take a look at their stuff and discover that their combined supplies are enough to last them for up to a week. By the time they pack their things back into the car, it's already dark. Both of them don't dare to light a bonfire so they resort to eating their dinner in the car, curled in their seats around the glow of Pewdie's flashlight.

It's been a good day, Pewdie thinks as he tucks into a plastic spoonful of fruit cocktail from the can he is holding. It's good that Cry seems a little more relaxed now that he's rested, cleaned himself up and had enough time to shave. It's good that they're slowly going back to being their own selves when they talk to each other. It's almost like slipping back into familiar clothes, like settling back into a familiar routine. Like the world around them never changed.

"Where should we go tomorrow?" Cry asks aloud. He has Map open and is tracing roads with his finger while Pewdie helpfully picks up Torchy and shines the light onto the page. "Where do _you _usually drive to, Pewds?" Cry says, looking expectantly at him.

"Uh," Pewdie begins. He's been driving around all these weeks without much of a destination. He likes to take the small, back roads instead of highways because he knows some will be congested with abandoned cars. There is also a low chance of meeting hordes of zombies along the way.

"You _do _know that what we need right now is a plan, right?" says Cry meaningfully. "We can't keep driving around in circles like this. We need to find some place safe." He then turns back to Map, flipping through a couple of pages before coming to rest on a large scale illustration of North America. "I say we keep heading south. You know, stay away from the bigger, more advanced cities. There's gotta be a safe zone somewhere."

"A safe zone?" Pewdie says musingly, thinking back to the zombie apocalypse-related knowledge in his head. "Wait, wait. If that's the case, then maybe there's some sort of announcement being done for any survivors? Of where they should go? Like a safe zone? Maybe we should find some sort of transmission device. Like a radio. Or a walkie-talkie. We've got to reach out to someone at least. Let them know we're still alive and we need help."

"Yet I wonder why you hadn't done that yet," Pewdie hears Cry mutter. In Torchy's glow, he can see Cry raising an eyebrow at him. "Don't tell me you thought of that just now?" he adds.

It makes sense though, what Cry is hinting at. The moment Pewdie knows that the zombie uprising continues to get worse as days pass by, he should have thought that the first thing to do was to go find help, to get to someplace safe. Instead, he'd been stuck on the roads for weeks, driving aimlessly around without a destination. So Cry's accusation leaves Pewdie spluttering for words and he feels his face flush in embarrassment. He silently reminds himself to scold Map for not giving him that idea in the beginning.

"I was _busy_," he supplies the pathetic excuse to Cry.

"Uh-huh," this time the edge of Cry's mouth rises into a smile. "You were busy doing _what _exactly?"

"Going on a road trip, of course," says Pewdie emphatically. "And it was lucky that I did. Otherwise, I never would've picked you up from that gas station."

"Whoa, whoa. _You _picked me up?" Now Cry is snorting in laughter. It's good to hear him laugh again. "Who was the one trapped in a room with a zombie banging on his door?"

Pewdie sighs dramatically and leans back in the driver's seat in defeat. "Okay, fine, _fine. _You saved me, Cry. Now let's get back to this big plan of ours."

The amusement on Cry's face is the last thing he sees before Torchy suddenly flickers in his hand and dies, plunging them into total darkness.

"I guess that's our cue to go to sleep," Pewdie mumbles, tossing Torchy into the backseat. He knows the spare batteries are stashed in the glove compartment but he doesn't need those now. Beside him, he hears Cry straightening up in his seat.

"I'll keep watch," he says quietly in the dark. "You get some rest, Pewds."

* * *

Pewdie says, "It looks like there's only a few of 'em wandering around. I think we can take 'em, Cry–"

"No, wait, _wait_," Cry cuts in. "We can't assume that there's only one or two zombies in the area. We need to check every corner of the place. Make sure that we don't get jumped when we're creeping around."

"But have you _seen _how big this place is? I don't think we have time to look around," Pewdie points out as he gestures at the large hardware store, about the size of a warehouse, which they have parked outside. It's been almost a week since they'd left the secluded lake and they both agreed that it was time for a supply run. After Pewdie had pulled up at the hardware store's parking lot, they can see a hole punched through one of the glass doors, where someone must have thrown something small through it. Beyond that, some shadowy figures float languidly past the dark entrance. It's obvious who those figures are.

Initially, Pewdie had been uncertain of this idea because what good would they do raiding a hardware store in the first place? What could possibly be useful to take from there?

"Are you serious?" Cry had said when Pewdie pointed it out while driving down an empty, dusty highway. He then gestured back towards Bluey's trunk. "Have you _seen _the kind of stuff you'd tossed in there? Not exactly useful, Pewds. The crowbar and baseball bat are the exception, but a _hedge_ trimmer? _Really_? And police batons? What can we _do_ with those things?" That was when Cry proceeded to explain to him the kind of things they could take from a hardware store which would be essential for their survival – things such as rope, duct tape, fire starter equipment, a compass or some spare parts for any gears. If they were to live in the wilderness, they needed to be prepared for it. Soon, Pewdie began to see the sense in Cry's words and eventually agreed to this plan.

Except, the problem still remained about how they could get in and out of the store without getting themselves killed.

"Listen," Cry says, trying to sound reasonable. "If we just take a while to look carefully, whatever it is that we've picked up could very well be the key that can save our _lives_. Now for _that _to work–" he shoots Pewdie a look that stops him from interrupting. "We need to recon the area. Find out how many zombies there are inside. If there are too many of them, maybe we'll find a way to draw them elsewhere. Gather them around so that it keeps the aisles we're looking through clear."

"How are we going to do _that_?" Pewdie can't help but whine. "I don't suppose we walk in there and ask the security guard how many zombies there are in the store?"

"Even though the security guard is a zombie himself," Cry adds with a half-grin, which then falls off his lips. "Damn. I guess you're right about one thing though. We have no idea how we can determine the number of zombies inside. No way to recon either. There is just no way."

"Yeah, and we don't have enough time to find out as well," Pewdie mutters, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "Well, whatever plan we're doing, we'd better hurry up. Nightfall is coming. I'm totally not going in there in the dark."

They sit quietly for a while, lost in their thoughts before Pewdie sucks in a breath to break their silence. "Let's simply do it like this. We'll just sneak inside," he suggests. "We'll be really quiet and keep out of sight. We could go in through the back door. There should be one in a big place like this."

"A back door?" Cry blinks like he has just realised this. "Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Except we don't know if there might be zombies on the other side of that door. Judging from what we can see here, the front door looks like it doesn't have too many."

"Should we split up then?" Pewdie says. "One of us goes through the front door and the other, the back?"

"No, no, we stick together," Cry says firmly before he shoots him a look. "Also, Pewds, that's a stupid idea. The whole splitting up thing. Don't ever think that again." A few seconds later though, he hums approvingly, "Yeah, I think we should sneak inside, like you said. There's one thing we've got an advantage over when it comes to zombies after all – they can't see or smell us. They can only hear us since they react to sound."

"Oh," Well, this is brand new information to him. Pewdie has never picked this fact up on his travels. Then again, he didn't stay long enough in the company of zombies to find out about it anyway. "That just means we have to walk around these bastards super-quietly."

"Exactly," says Cry before he reaches between them to pick up Torchy. "It doesn't look like there's any electricity powering up the place. It'll be dark inside. We'll need these. Now, let's grab what we need from here, go over the plan again and get started."

They spend several minutes getting ready before they get out of the car, armed with backpacks, flashlights and weapons – Cry with his shovel, which he fixed with a makeshift strap to hang off his shoulder, and Pewdie clutching a crowbar. They make their way to the back of the store, past the mangled remains of a run-down gate. A set of heavy doors by the side of the building tell them that this is their way in. Pewdie tries the door and finds it locked.

"You got your lock pick?" he doesn't really need to ask this because Cry has already taken the pouch out of his backpack and is crouching by the door. He unfolds the pouch on his lap and stares at the nine tool pieces inside.

"I just realised," Cry mumbles regretfully, looking blank. "That I have no idea what I'm doing."

Pewdie suppresses a groan. "You're kidding me," Of _course_ they would not know how to operate these things. They've seen plenty of lock picking in action in movies and videogames but they have never touched the items in real life. Pewdie thinks hard about what he remembers about lock picking and reaches over to point at the most familiar pick and wrench from memory.

"You take these," Pewdie begins and Cry follows his words and does so. "Okay, now do you remember playing that videogame? Can't remember which one but you had to do some sort of lock picking thing. I don't know if it's realistic enough for this situation but it might give you an idea."

"Yeah, I think I remember," says Cry, and Pewdie sees him brightening a little as a memory returns to him. "God, can't believe I forgot that. Feels like a million years ago." Cry folds the pouch and puts it back in his bag. "Okay, Pewds," he says, looking up at him. "Keep a lookout. This could take a while."

It certainly does take a while – specifically, it involves fifteen minutes of watching Cry wriggle the tools that he inserted into the lock. Even a restless Pewdie, who stands watch and impatiently waits for results, is given a go at it without much success. Finally, just as Pewdie feels a frustrated urge to kick the double doors, there is a sharp _click_ and he turns sharply to see Cry fall back to the ground, sighing deeply in relief. He pulls off his glasses to wipe the sweat off his face.

"It's open," he announces triumphantly.

They find the other side of the door thankfully empty but the place is dark, the only light source coming from the few windows scattered here and there. It's silent and eerie now and Pewdie doesn't know if that is a good sign or not.

"Remember," he hears Cry whisper very quietly beside him. "Whatever you do, do _not _make a sound. Or we're as good as dead. Now, turn on your flashlight and let's go."

They go through a door that leads outside to the actual store, and it's a big area that mostly lies in darkness except for a single dim light source coming from beyond glass windows of an office at the other end. The white fluorescent light is buzzing with electricity as it keeps flicking on and off, eerily throwing the room into light and darkness. There are also other noises – muffled sounds of shuffling, of quiet moaning, and they know it is the undead and they are sleepily moving around the aisles, waiting for something to wake them up from their dormant state, waiting to attack something living, waiting for the time to feast.

For a minute or two, Pewdie stands there with Cry, listening to those noises, so prominent they seem in the thick, eerie silence as they take in the scene before them. It's unreal, Pewdie thinks. It's unreal to see and hear all this, to be in this situation that's so familiar to him from a television screen. It's unreal to be here right now.

He feels Cry nudge him lightly, moving him into action. They shine their flashlights over the aisles, the floors, only to find them a mess. The place had been looted before, things have been knocked off their shelves, some of the display tables wiped clean. There isn't much to scavenge but Pewdie can see that Cry looks determined to make the best of their situation.

They work very slowly, choosing one empty aisle and Cry sifts through what's left on the shelves or on the floor. They don't speak while he works and Pewdie continues to keep a lookout, shining Torchy – who is thankfully silent, probably because it's trembling with fear in his hand – here and there, keeping his ears out for any sounds of approaching footsteps. When Cry finishes, he settles next to him, gives a nod, and they quietly move on to the next aisle.

They avoid aisles and walkways where they spot zombies either staggering down the lanes, lightly bumping into things, or just swaying blankly on the spot. Once, a zombie lifts its head towards their direction and Pewdie and Cry both freeze on the spot, not daring to breathe or move, until the creature turns away from them.

The scavenging continues smoothly for another ten minutes and Pewdie can't help but feel restless at how excruciatingly slow this is taking. He's also never felt so highly tense before. The atmosphere in the store is just so thick, so silent, that any kind of sound seems amplified in their ears. Cry even stiffens when his hand accidentally knocks something thin and metallic but the sound is thankfully muffled. As seconds pass, Pewdie feels his anticipation rising and he reminds himself not to breathe too hard.

_Don't make a sound,_ Torchy tells him telepathically. It's happening again. Even when his mind threatens to be overwhelmed with silence, he begins to imagine speaking to things in his head. _Cry told you not to make a sound, Pewdie. Don't do it. Stop shuffling like that. Just wait for Cry to finish. I hope he finishes soon because I don't think I can fucking take this anymore._

He frowns slightly. He isn't sure if Torchy had been the one speaking that.

Unable to watch Cry any longer, Pewdie turns and begins shining Torchy on the opposite shelves which are filled with all sorts of batteries. He is suddenly hit with an idea that they would probably need a lot of these when they are on the road. He crouches onto the floor, hesitates on what to do with his crowbar, before he ties it tightly to his own bag with a cord he brought with him. Only then does he quickly collect as many battery packets as he can, stuffing them into the pockets of his bag.

_Well done, Pewdie, _Torchy congratulates him. _You'll definitely need these when my batteries run out. Don't want you running around blindly in the dark._

_God, no. _Pewdie agrees, already imagining the situation. _I really, really don't want that to happen. _

Once he finishes, he straightens up and turns – and Torchy's light shines onto a zombie's disfigured face.

Pewdie _jumps_ – and a hand clamps tightly over his mouth followed by an arm around his shoulder, holding both his voice and body down. Pewdie forces himself to stay still even though he is screaming hysterically inside.

The zombie standing in Torchy's light must have wandered into their aisle. It is swaying a couple of feet away from them, perhaps drawn to the miniscule noises they were making which are not loud enough to wake it up from its sluggish state. Its face is terrible to look at, the right side of it is a smashed, bloody mess. All that remains of its right eye has been reduced to a milky, jelly-like fluid that is dripping down its ruined cheek – or what is left of it. The zombie's head sways a little, its mouth lolling open, looking curious as to why the sounds have vanished, before it settles there and doesn't move again, as if it finds itself comfortable at this spot.

Pewdie does not know how long he and Cry stand there, pressed against each other, with Cry's palm clamped over Pewdie's mouth. Eventually, Cry lets him go very slowly and shines his flashlight onto his face. Geez, Cry looks as terrified as he is.

_We go back slowly, _Pewdie sees Cry mouth the words as he motions behind him. _Don't scream. _

He then feels Cry's clammy hand grip him around the elbow. _Keep your light on it, _Cry instructs. _I'll lead you_.

They move painfully slow, taking small baby steps down the aisle. Pewdie decides he doesn't give a shit at how long this is going to take, as long as they get away from this zombie. His heartbeat hasn't stopped racing in his chest after that scare, and he misses the safety of his car, of driving down a road. He misses the days when situations like these only exist in his videogames and where he is safe and sound in a basement, armed with only his headphones and not a flashlight.

He misses those days a _lot_.

As they inch closer and closer to the other end of the aisle, Torchy's light expands around the zombie, revealing the rest of its body. It's wearing a uniform – no doubt this was an employee who worked at this hardware store – and the blood-splattered name tag pinned to its shirt uncovers that its name had been 'Martin'. The more they move, the more features of the zombie can be seen and they soon discover to their disbelief that it is in fact not wearing any pants. They are pooled around its ankles, revealing the lower half of Zombie Martin's body to be completely naked.

Except that there is a bloody cluster of mutilated flesh where Martin's genitals used to be.

Pewdie isn't sure what to react to this sight. He isn't even sure what to _feel_ about it. For one thing, he wants to laugh out loud – because what the _fuck_, what happened to it, how did it get this way? And – I can't really believe I'm seeing this. That zombie has no fucking penis, goddamn it. Its name is Martin. Martin, _seriously_? This has never happened before. This is too weird. This is too funny.

On the other hand, he also wants to scream because it looks too, too _horrible_, too disgusting, too painful to look at.

He knows that Cry has seen it too and is probably feeling the same conflicting urges as he does to either laugh or scream, but his chosen response in the end is better. He merely turns his head and focuses hard on getting them away from this aisle.

Their patience finally pays off when Cry tugs his elbow, signalling their arrival at the end of the aisle, and motions his head towards the direction of the office, the only place that still emits light. He mouths, _Last place. Then we go. _Pewdie nods dumbly. He has to physically cover his mouth with his hand to stop himself from saying something about Zombie Martin. It's so tempting to open his mouth and make a noise, but Cry's grip on his elbow reminds him to keep quiet.

Once again, their progress is slow – this side of the store has more zombies than usual. They have to manoeuvre their way around the frightening bunch. One of the zombies has lost its entire wrist, its existing forearm ending in exposed bone. There is one of a young boy, dried blood coating its mouth, staining all over its Captain America T-shirt. An undead man staggers around, hunched over by the weight of a fire axe planted crookedly on its back. Cry narrowly misses stepping onto a severed hand lying on the floor.

Finally, they reach the office door, which is hanging half open, and they slip inside. The flickering light overhead reveals the office to be thankfully empty and Pewdie shuts the door, taking care not to click the lock.

It is only then that it is safe to relax and begin to breathe normally.

"Oh fucking hell," Pewdie exhales, pushing his sweaty hair out of his face. He tucks Torchy into his pocket only because he knows he can't hold it anymore without dropping it. "That was fucking _intense._"

"Man the door," Cry instructs, wiping his clammy hands on his trousers. The overhead light throws his form into light and darkness. "I'll move quickly. Then we get the hell out of here."

Pewdie watches the store beyond the glass windows of the office. It overlooks almost the entire vicinity of the store and he can see the number of shadowy figures staggering through the aisles. He comes up with a little over than thirty zombies trapped inside the building. _How the hell do we get out? _He thinks. _We go back to where we came or…?_

From the cluttered office desk, he hears Cry hiss for his attention. "Hey, look what I found," he whispers excitedly. He holds up a chunky black device attached with an antenna and it looks like a walkie-talkie. Pewdie feels a grin and a spark of hope lift both his lips and spirit. Finally, he thinks. We can find a way to reach someone with this. We'll be saved.

A sudden sound outside snaps them back to reality. Cry freezes for a second before he quickly stashes the transmission device into his almost full bag. "Let's go," he whispers urgently. "We've stayed here long enough–"

Except somehow, when Cry is putting in his latest find, his backpack shifts on top of the desk it rests on and bumps against an intercom button that none of them have seen earlier.

The Tannoy speakers around the store _ding dongs_ – and the sound _jars _through the silence, echoing around the store. Every undead head in the building jerks, lifting towards the ceiling, waking up.

"Oh fuck," Cry curses. His face loses its colour, matching the white fluorescent light which blinks off a second later.

"Okay, we got to go," Pewdie says hastily, rushing over to Cry to pull him out of his frozen state. "Come on, bro. Keep focused. We can't stay here any longer. They'll find us. We have to go _now_."

When they quietly slip outside, they are met with an activity of noise. The sounds of shuffling are less muffled now, footsteps moving faster, and groaning voices have risen to the point where they are resonating off the walls. Pewdie feels Cry stiffen beside him as they stare at the scene in front of them. The zombies are waking up, some shaking off their stupor and some already staggering around, heads turning here and there in an attempt to locate the loud noise which had roused them from inactivity. They have yet to spot the only two living people cornered against the office door and Pewdie dreads the moment when the treacherous pounding of his heart would become loud enough to alert the creatures of their presence.

At the far end of the store, Pewdie knows that Bluey is parked outside, waiting for them beyond the front entrance. He knows there is no time to manoeuvre their way back to the rear entrance from which they came. Right now, Pewdie just focuses on the exit he knows that lies beyond the many rows of shelves and the group of zombies before them.

His foot hits something solid which is lying on the floor on its side, propped against the wall. The flickering dim light from the office reveals it to be a metal folding ladder. A wild idea hits him and he thinks of the ladder and running and the entrance door with a hole in its glass. He gently nudges Cry on the side.

_Ladder,_ Pewdie mouths, pointing at the object. _Open it up._

Cry's eyes cast downwards and then flick back up at him in understanding.

_Charge_? He guesses.

It's certainly a foolish idea that Pewdie has come up with because it's the sort of decision he would do when he's playing a survival horror videogame, to grab anything he could find and charge through, never mind the thought of whether the objects he used are practical for the job. But what if it doesn't work? What if they get jumped and dragged back into dozens of grabbing hands on the way? What if they get eaten in the attempt? What if they don't make it? Then all this would have been for nothing.

But there is just _no_ time to think about anything else.

_Let's do this,_ Cry says through a nod, and even when he looks freaked out as hell in the flickering light, it's enough to encourage him to go along with his idea. So Pewdie reassures him with a nod of his own, takes off his backpack and puts it back on from the front so that it covers his chest. He grasps one of the steps of the ladder and motions for Cry to take one from the opposite rail.

They proceed to unfold the ladder and the joints _squeak_. They both flinch at the sound and Pewdie thinks this is when they need to start working faster. Already the noise has caught a zombie's attention and it begins staggering towards their direction.

_In!_ Pewdie gestures wildly once the ladder unfolds and the spreader lock clicks to secure the ladder rails in place. They scramble to tuck themselves in between the rails, squeezing into the limited space it offers and lift the ladder, the top facing forward like an arrow, and take a second to brace themselves. Pewdie fumbles to pull Torchy out of his pocket and switch it on. He clutches it tightly in his hand.

"Ready?" he hears Cry murmur into his ear. His voice is shaking a little. "Don't stop for anything."

Pewdie draws in a single deep breath and releases it in a purely (unintentional) battle cry:

"CHAAARGE!"

* * *

The next thing Cry sees is a blur too fast for him to process. He can't see where he's going because Pewdie's head is in the way and it is dark in front of them, even with Pewdie's flashlight illuminating a portion of their route. Their feet take flight, crossing over uneven ground, and twice Cry trips over something on the floor but thankfully regains his balance in time. One arm curls securely around the ladder step he holds up while his other hand clutches hard onto the back of Pewdie's shirt.

There is a horrible moment when they feel their ladder judder hard in their grip as they smash through several undead bodies. Pewdie continues yelling frantically as he directs their path and Cry wants to smack him for making so much noise. His yells echo around the building, resonating off the walls and it's chaos in here and Cry realises he's yelling too and he thinks he feels fingers pull at his sleeve, at his arms, at his legs, and he dares not to look. He might be calm when handling one or two zombies in the past but facing a crowd of them isn't really what he wants to deal with.

_This isn't going to work_, Cry isn't sure he's thinking it or screaming it aloud. _We are going to die_. _We are going to fucking _die_ here._

"Fucking zombies!" he hears Pewdie shriek in front of him. "Get out of the way! _Arrrrghhh!_ No! You, you stay down. I don't like you! No, no. Go back to sleep, _back _to sleep, zombies – argh, stop, stop, _aiiee_, _aieee_," he whimpers before screeching loudly again and it's kind of funny because it sounds just like Pewdie doing commentary on his gameplays again. "_Don't _come near us. _No. _Fuckity fuck. Cry, Cry, are you still alive – just keep fucking _running_. Don't stop for anything–"

Cry gets the scare of his life when he feels something grab onto his backpack, followed by a snarling voice in his ear. Panic rises in him as he tries in vain to shake the unseen zombie off of him, tries not to picture it lean over to take a bite out of his ear. He can hear its mouth snapping, reaching for him from the bulky backpack and he wonders why it hasn't yet bitten him. He can't let go of the ladder now to reach for his shovel which is hanging from the makeshift strap on his shoulder. For one millisecond, he wants to shrug off his backpack and risk losing all the things they'd collected, including the transmission device he discovered in the office, but before he can make another move, Pewdie yells at him from over his shoulder.

"Run faster!" he commands. "We're going to hit the glass doors!"

Ignoring the zombie attached to his backpack – and it is _so _hard to do so without wanting to freak out – Cry spurts forward, willing himself to move faster, expecting to get bitten before they hit the doors. The front entrance, the hole punched through its glass. He can now see it now, moving closer and closer to them with each step. He doesn't dare look back, doesn't dare to see how many zombies are on their tail right now.

All he thinks is, _we're not going to make it in time. _

The top of the ladder rams into the doors and the glass smashes into pieces as they pierce through it. The impact sends shock waves shuddering through their bodies and Pewdie is screaming and Cry is screaming as large shards of broken glass rain on them. The heavy weight on his backpack, the zombie that had been attached to him is now gone, thrown off by the collision.

And then they are _outside_, finally outside and it's dark as fuck as they're sprinting and gasping in the cool night air, and right there, there's Pewdie's car and Cry has never been so fucking happy to see that old, battered, blue thing that he sometimes hears Pewdie murmur affectionately to when he isn't looking –

Cry makes the mistake of looking over his shoulder at the building they have left behind, and gasps.

A crowd of zombies, more than a dozen or so, are staggering energetically after them, all collectively squeezing through the jagged hole recently made on the entrance doors, not caring that the sharp glass edges are cutting through their decomposing skin. One or two are already outside, following them across the empty parking lot.

"We need to ditch this!" Cry yells to Pewdie's back about their ladder. "They're after us!"

"On _three_!" Pewdie screeches back and it turns out they don't need a countdown because they both drop the ladder at the same time and scramble to get out from between the rails. They reach the car and Cry tears the passenger door open and dives inside, tossing his backpack and shovel into the backseat. Pewdie slams his door shut and _shrieks_ when a zombie throws itself onto the driver's window, making the car shake.

"Start the damn car!" Cry instructs hysterically. He can see more and more of them coming; _god _there's so many of them, how the fuck did they get past so _many_ of them–

Pewdie starts the engines, flicking on the headlights, and slams his foot on the gas. The car jerks into motion and Pewdie swerves it around the ladder they've ditched and sees exactly what they have narrowly escaped from.

"Holy–" he breathes as the car hurtles past the crowd of zombies spilling out onto the parking lot. They don't have time to look anymore as they take an exit that leads them back down to the wild highway.

It is only ten minutes later, ten long minutes of silence broken only by their frantic and erratic breathing, that the situation finally dawns on them – and when it does, it is _unbelievable_.

"Oh my fucking god," Pewdie, of course, is the first to vocalise this startling realisation.

"Holy _shit_, man!" Cry all but screams it out. His hands, his limbs, his whole body is shaking uncontrollably like a leaf. He cannot believe what had just happened. "Holy. Fucking. _Shit_," he exclaims again and what the hell, his eyes are wet and Cry rubs them with the back of his trembling hand. He cannot stop himself from shaking – or dry sobbing in disbelief at their narrow escape from death.

"Cry," Pewdie says quietly and it's curious why this happens because Pewdie has always been loud with everything and it's curious that he isn't loud now. Cry can't see him but he feels the other's hand pat reassuringly on his forearm.

"We made it, Cry," Pewdie murmurs in awe beside him. "We're still alive."

* * *

_Feedback, as always, is greatly appreciated. (So how do you like this monster so far?)_


	4. Chapter 4

Much appreciation to the comments/faves/follows. Thank you so much for them! Special thanks to **LoryLily** for sticking around since the beginning. I'm very happy, guys, that this story is actually being read.

Feedback, as always, is appreciated because it tells me that yes, I am writing something that you all like and enjoy.

The following chapter contains scenes of a disturbing nature. This is rated M for a reason after all. You have been warned.

* * *

**04.**

An hour passes after their miraculous escape from the zombie-infested hardware store. Eventually, once Cry stops himself from shaking, he begins to realise that his body feels sore and his hand is smarting. It's too dark in the car to see anything so he traces a line which seems to be cut across the inside joints of his fingers. They don't feel like teeth marks (god, please tell me I didn't get bitten) but he tries to experimentally open and close his hand anyway, hissing a little when his fingers give a painful throb.

Whatever it is, he needs to check it out. So he reaches up to click on the car dome light to further examine his hands. When Pewdie gives a whine beside him for suddenly flooding the car with bright light, Cry turns and sees a line of blood which has streaked down Pewdie's face, staining his cheek red.

"You're bleeding," Cry points out, alarmed. "We should stop somewhere and patch that up before it gets infected."

"I _am_?" Pewdie shoots a quick glance at the rear-view mirror to see his reflection. His bewildered expression changes to that of shock. "Holy shit. I'm bleeding. I'm bleeding, Cry. How come I didn't even notice this?"

"Pull over," Cry instructs, popping open the glove compartment to extract one of their first aid kits. "The last thing we want right now is for you to pass out while driving."

They are lucky enough to spot another large billboard up ahead – some commercial about the country's best pie – and park the car behind it. They leave the dome light on so Pewdie can properly study himself in the rear-view mirror while Cry readies the antiseptic and plasters. It's silent in the car as Pewdie carefully peels his blood-stained hair off his face to inspect the damage. He then stares dazedly at his reflection and doesn't move for a long time.

Suddenly, Cry feels panic rise in his chest at the other's stillness. He kicks his door open, startling Pewdie, and goes out to take a few things from the trunk, navigating in the dark by flashlight. He returns with a torn strip of cloth and a precious bottle of water.

"I'll do it," Pewdie says, reaching for the items but Cry yanks them out of reach.

"Hold your hair back," he says instead and hopes the firmness in his tone would compel the other to obey. He's not sure if it's a trick of the light but Pewdie looks a little flustered by his words.

"You really don't need to," says Pewdie, shaking his head a little. "Really, Cry. I'm fine. I can do it. _Don't_–" his words cut off and Cry realises that Pewdie seems embarrassed by the attention given to him. Cry had reacted on panic after all when he frantically scrambled out to fetch things from the trunk, thinking that Pewdie might have been seriously hurt. After realising that Pewdie had noticed his reaction, Cry can't help but reciprocate the same feeling of embarrassment as well.

Except that this really isn't the time for any of that. He needs to turn his attention to the matter at hand. "Man up, bro," he says encouragingly to Pewdie and probably to himself as well. "And hold your hair back, okay?"

A few minutes later, Cry is gingerly cleaning the cut around Pewdie's eyebrow with the strip of damp cloth, now stained red with blood.

"So how long do I have left, doctor?" Pewdie asks melodramatically, gazing wistfully up at him. "A week to live?"

"Oh, you're lucky it's not deep," Cry shoots back with a smile, peering at the faint line across the other's skin. He coats a wad of cotton wool with some antiseptic and looks back at Pewdie expectantly.

"Go for it," says Pewdie. Cry can sense him tensing a little and he gives a playful scoff, intending to be encouraging, "Relax, Pewds. It'll just feel like a pinch."

Pewdie doesn't make a noise when Cry lightly presses the swabbed wad onto the shallow cut but he does flinch away at the contact. By the time Pewdie straightens up, Cry has already stuck a plaster over it.

"There's blood in my hair," Pewdie says, wiping his stained locks. "I guess it makes sense to get cut after smashing through glass like we did but – What about _you_? Are you hurt anywhere?"

Cry remembers his hand stinging and quickly puts his palm up to the light. He can see thin red lines cut across the inside of his fingers and his thumb is swollen, streaked with tiny little red dots. Bruised, he thinks automatically, recognising this type of injury. From gripping the ladder when it smashed hard through the glass. Definitely _not_ a bite mark. There is nothing much to do with a bruise like this unless they have ice cubes at their disposal, which they don't.

Pewdie seizes his wrist and exclaims, "Geez. That looked like it hurt."

"It feels numb actually," says Cry, letting Pewdie examine his hand closer in the light. He falls into a thoughtful silence as he stares blankly at the bruise. Although the memory of their escape remains fresh in his mind, when it comes back to him this time, the whole thing suddenly feels unreal, like a dream, as if they hadn't just experienced it a little over an hour ago. He can still recall the emotions and the atmosphere of that time – remembers the tension, the fear, the adrenaline rush, the shuddering jolt as they break through glass, the overwhelming sense of relief at their survival – but they're distant now. Distant like a dream. Did all that really happen?

"Whoa, you alright there?" Pewdie gives his wrist a little tug, jerking him out of his thoughts. "How are you holding up?"

"Sorry," says Cry, pulling his hand back. "I'm fine. Just… still a little shocked." It's not true though, he's no longer in a state of shock. More like bewildered – bewildered that they are here, alive and breathing, and not eaten by zombies or ripped to shreds by broken glass. He thinks, if I'd gone in there on my own without anyone to back me up, I would've been dead in five minutes.

"It's weird," Pewdie says suddenly and his voice is serious for once. "I can hardly believe all that actually happened. It's like watching two other people do this stuff and escape without getting killed. You know, like they're not us. Because if it _were_ us, we wouldn't have survived." He lets out a short laugh, "It's sort of feels like–"

"–A dream," Cry finishes for him the moment he realises that Pewdie's words mirror his own thoughts. "Yeah, that's exactly it."

"We were like, sneaking past _fifty_ zombies or something–" Pewdie gestures wildly with his hands.

"With flashlights!" Cry adds.

"We had to be in ninja stealth mode–"

"Exactly. And we were quiet enough that they didn't even _hear_ us."

"'Cos we're _awesome _like that. Awesome ninjas. We even escaped Zombie Martin."

Zombie Martin? Cry couldn't help letting out a giggle. "Zombie Martin?" he says aloud because he can't begin to pinpoint what was funny about that creature – Pewdie's nickname for him, or the fact that Zombie Martin wasn't wearing any pants and was missing a dick.

Except Pewdie thought he was giggling at the latter reason because he bursts into uncontrollable laughter, making Cry laugh even more because Pewdie's laughs are just fucking contagious – before gasping, "What the hell happened to him? I've never seen anything like it before. _Anywhere. _Not in _any_ zombie movie I've seen. He must've had a hard time getting laid."

"Or someone had been a little too enthusiastic with him," Cry joins in the raunchy talk because he really can't help it if he sees an opening. "I think he needs to lay off the blow job requests from now on."

"Oh my god," Pewdie struggles to speak above Cry's laughing. "He should dump that zombie girlfriend of his. She really needs to learn not to bite too hard next time."

"Oh my god, Pewds. You _didn't._"

"Oh, but I _did_."

It's funny how many dick-related jokes they can come up with, and their laughter fills the interior of the car for another five minutes before they lapse into silence. Suddenly, like the aftermath of a violent storm, Cry thinks Zombie Martin's fate isn't so hilarious after all.

"It's horrible," he finds himself saying aloud. "What happened to him, to his face, to… you know."

"I think he got attacked in the toilets," Pewdie murmurs gravely. "I really don't want _that _happening to me if I were to die at the hands of a zombie." He then hums thoughtfully and says, "Not that I _want_ to die any sooner. But… I'm glad though. That you were around to stop me, Cry. That you were there with me. Otherwise, I would've screamed when I saw Martin and gotten us killed."

The look Pewdie gives him right now leaves him with a warm feeling in his chest and Cry feels that he needs to confess something of his own. It's surprising that he and Pewdie seem to be thinking and feeling the exact same things. It's surprising how synchronised they seem to be at this moment, how this makes it easier for him to open up to the other because he knows that Pewdie will understand. It's strangely different from before, from when the world used to be normal and he and Pewdie sometimes have heartfelt talks over Skype, because he's never been in a situation where he literally owes someone his life.

And so he does. Cry says quietly, "I need to tell you something. Remember when I accidentally pressed that intercom button in that office?"

"Oh yeah, Cry," says Pewdie mischievously, giving him a mock-accusing stare. "You fucked up."

"Oh shut up," Cry waves it off with a laugh even though deep down, the accusation leaves him with a horrible feeling of guilt. "I'm being serious here… look, when we were facing those zombies all waking up, I really thought we were done for. I honestly couldn't see a way out. My mind sort of went blank for a second. I mean, I knew we couldn't go through the back door and how could we get to the front one without getting attacked?"

Cry pauses to let out a deep breath. He knows that Pewdie is listening to him carefully now, not wanting to interrupt him, so he continues on, "What I'm trying to say is, if it weren't for your quick thinking with the ladder… basically, we wouldn't have gotten out of the shit I put us in if it weren't for you, Pewds. So, thanks."

That's it then, Cry tells himself. We've both laid everything onto the table.

There is an awkward stretch of silence before Pewdie's face breaks into a smile. "We make a pretty awesome team," he points out and – goddamn it, it's the best idea in the world.

"Awesome ninja _stealth_ team," Cry corrects with a grin.

"Awesome ninja stealth team fighting against zombies," Pewdie adds. "We should make our own videogame. Have the characters sneak past zombies and earn achievement points."

"That'll be _your_ game," Cry says, snorting. "I'm fucking done with zombies."

"Oh, but we _are _keeping the awesome ninja stealth team, right?" Pewdie's grin is blinding once again. "Of course we are. That team is _us. _We'll be okay as long as we stick together, eh? Am I right, bro?"

He lifts his fist, holding it towards him, and Cry wants to laugh again because he hasn't seen a fist bump in what he thinks is _years_. It's so wonderfully familiar and it reminds him of better times, of times when he sits at home and creates videos that help make the world a happier place.

"Totally," he agrees, and bumps his fist against Pewdie's warm one.

* * *

Pewdie wakes up to a face full of sunlight and groans, intending to turn over. Then Cry's voice flows into his ear.

"You're awake," he says and Pewdie lifts his stiff, sore wrist to cover his eyes from the sun's glare. "No, no, don't go back to sleep," Cry scolds. "Come on, got something to show you."

"How are you even awake so early?" Pewdie mutters, straightening up in his seat and rubbing his face, feeling the plaster on his eyebrow. "Did you get any sleep last night?" It's the morning after their miraculous escape and they're still parked behind the giant billboard. It's a shame that they're facing eastwards because the sun right now is a little fucking annoying.

"Yes I did," Cry says patiently. Pewdie can't see his eyes since the sunlight is reflecting off his glasses, but he does see that Cry is holding something in his hand. When Pewdie blinks his groggy eyes a few times to get his vision into focus, he recognises the chunky black device they retrieved from the hardware store.

"The walkie-talkie?" he says.

"Even better," Cry goes to correct him. "It's a handheld CB radio. It's good for use in remote areas and also perfect for times like these…"

The pause that Cry leaves makes Pewdie purse his lips. "You don't know how to use it?" he guesses, reaching for the device.

Cry lets him take it. "No idea," he says and when Pewdie begins to examine the CB radio in his hand, he adds, "Also, it doesn't work because there aren't enough batteries."

"Are you _kidding_ me?" Pewdie says incredulously. "I got us a whole bunch of batteries back at the hardware store–"

"Yeah, I know," Cry cuts in a little sombrely. "I took the liberty to check. You've collected a whole bunch of them – AAAs, Cs, Ds, some other sizes, but not enough AAs. This thing needs about nine of them. We've only got two working ones left."

Pewdie stares at the device in his hand. "Are you kidding me?" he mutters again, disappointed at the discovery that their one item of hope turns out to be useless after all. Except what stops him from wallowing in that disappointment is that Cry is looking at him expectantly. He looks restless, like he wants to tell him something but is waiting for Pewdie to give the signal.

"I've been thinking," Cry starts anyway because apparently, Pewdie's bemused expression turns out to be the signal for him to speak. "We did pretty okay when we looted the hardware store, right? Maybe we could do it again… but this time, we find some other place. We could find new batteries for our CB radio, get this thing to finally work so that we'll be able to call for help. What do you say?"

It takes Pewdie several seconds for all that to absorb into his sleep-addled mind. When it does, he isn't sure what he is hearing, "Wait, are you saying you want us to go into _another _place with lots of zombies just to get more batteries for this thing?"

Cry's gaze is blazing with eagerness, "That pretty much sums it up."

Pewdie isn't really against the idea of a second attempt because he already knows that they will eventually have to do more of these as time goes by. He merely feels uneasy at the feeling that their luck might have run out after surviving that first supply run at the zombie-infested hardware store. Then again, Cry looks quite determined as he sits there with the CB radio which he took back in his hands. He looks determined that they are able to pull it off the second time, all because–

"We'll be okay," says Cry reassuringly. "As long as we stick together, right?"

The words strike a familiar cord within him and Pewdie grins, recognising that the words had been his own. Seeing the grin forming on his face, Cry's lips twitch upwards into a smile.

"What?" he says, sounding amused. "What's so funny?"

"I'm not laughing," says Pewdie with a slight shake of his head. "Why are _you _laughing?"

"Who's laughing?" Despite what he says, Cry is the first one who lets out a peal of laughter. "I don't even know why this is funny. All I said was that we try out his whole ninja stealth thing again. Just like that videogame idea you mentioned last night. I mean, we _did _do good yesterday, right? We know what to avoid next time. We move slow, we keep quiet, we take our time and most importantly, we don't wake up the zombies. Besides, we work well together. We got us out of that place mostly intact. I'm sure we can do it again."

"Well then, lead the way, Cry," Pewdie says, sweeping a hand towards the open road. "I have no idea where the nearest store is. We need to plan this carefully. Map– er, _the_ map is under your seat, I think… actually, do you have any idea where the fuck we are?"

Cry blinks before he lowers his window to lean his head outside. A few seconds later, he pulls back, muttering, "I have no idea where the fuck we are."

"Get that map out," Pewdie says, pretending to sound business-like as he settles back in his seat. He fires up Bluey and pulls the seatbelt strap over his chest, clicking it in securely. "We've got work to do."

* * *

So it begins, their "awesome ninja stealth team". It's what they decided to call themselves even though it's as cheesy as hell but it gives them something to be proud about. They drive on for hours, for days, until they finally find a very secluded retail park that is scattered with about a dozen zombies but also has something of an electronics store that is stacked between two clothes shops. They park a little away from it and recon the area for about an hour, planning the best way to break into the electronics store without disturbing the wandering undead.

"Sneak in through the back door again?" Cry suggests.

"Where _is _the back door anyway?" Pewdie points out while gazing through a set of binoculars that Cry scavenged from the hardware store. "I really don't think we can pull this off if we decide the only way in is through the front door."

"That is, if we assume that the front door is _locked_," Cry shoots back thoughtfully. "If it isn't locked, I wouldn't need to use the lock pick. That thing makes too much noise."

In the end, they decide to risk it and creep their way past the zombies, choosing a route where they can maintain at least a five feet gap of space between themselves and the creatures. They keep extra quiet as they take their time to reach the store's front entrance, rejoicing silently together when they find it unlocked. There is one zombie inside, a former shop assistant with two gunshot wounds in the middle of its chest, and it stands languidly by the glass counter, staring blankly into the distance. Discovering the presence of their unwanted guest, Cry and Pewdie stand by the shut door, wondering what to do with it.

Pewdie shoots a look at Cry and eyes the shovel hanging on the makeshift strap off his shoulder. _Bash its head_? He mouths. Cry shakes his head, unsure if it's a good idea. Will they make too much noise if that were to happen? Would the sound of a shovel smashing through a decomposing head be loud enough to literally wake the undead outside?

_Keep an eye on it,_ Cry commands Pewdie in the end, deciding not to risk it. There is no need to kill them unless the zombies are the ones who attack them first. _I'll go look for the batteries._

He's grateful that Pewdie doesn't argue with him so he leaves the latter to stand watch. He doesn't spend too long searching through the stuff in the store. There are a few things behind the counter that he's tempted to take but he doesn't want to go anywhere near the zombie. In the end, he finds no packets of batteries anywhere. The display racks, which are supposed to have the items hanging from their hooks, stand completely empty. Furthermore, there is no sign in the store that sells anything CB radio-related. Eventually, he gives up the search and motions for Pewdie, who Cry can see is already restless because of the way he absent-mindedly taps a rhythm onto his flashlight, that it's time to leave.

They breathe a collective sigh of relief the moment they sneak back into the car and drive off. This second attempt had been amazingly fortunate for them so far, since they managed to slip past a number of zombies and the undead shop assistant without disturbing them. The only thing that dampened their spirits was their lack of success in finding any battery cells for the CB radio.

"We must have been really lucky at that hardware store," Pewdie murmurs as he swerves the car out of the highway and onto a smaller road. "I guess one of the first things that people will stock up when there's a crisis will be batteries. They'll probably be the first thing to go. That's why you can't find them anywhere anymore. Also, we did another good job," he adds. "We're still alive and kicking."

This second experience doesn't feel as intense as the first, even though the amount of danger involved in both are similar. Cry finds that he does agree with Pewdie that they've done pretty well so far. The combined feeling of relief and triumph after leaving a scene of peril unscathed is overwhelming, addicting, and he finds that he wants to try again. He wants to keep finding things, to slip past zombies unseen, to feel invincible, because he feels he can do it – they _both _can do it as long as they stick together, as long as they have each other's backs.

The next time they find somewhere with a shop which probably sells batteries, they decide not to go through with looting it. The zombies in this area stagger around in groups, moving together with purpose. It's the first time they start to see the difference between the dormant-type of zombies that they'd dealt with and the ones which are fully awake. The way they are wander around the area gives a vital clue – the inactive ones are scattered about, languidly floating about like balloons while the active ones congregate in clusters, moving like a pack of wild dogs.

The only reason they were lucky enough to slip past the undead creatures in the hardware store and electronics shop was because no living human had visited both places for such a long time, and the lack of living flesh to pursue had rendered the zombies inactive. They only rouse into being when they hear a noise loud enough to attract their attention. That's when they become dangerous predators.

They know they see a losing battle when their car passes by the shop and about a dozen zombies jerk their heads at the noise of the engines and begin staggering after them. In two seconds, the group of a dozen zombies become two dozen, all travelling together in a mass of bodies, hurrying after their car and it's terrifying how they can suddenly move that fast, so Cry tells Pewdie to step on it and they zoom away.

* * *

They don't spend all their time searching for batteries. There's still the regular supply runs for food, water and other essentials but they only collect them from selected venues with fewer to no zombies around. Sometimes it's an abandoned house, sometimes it's a convenience store. Once, when they're stealing overripe fruits and vegetables off someone's garden, Pewdie startles badly when he spots a female zombie, formerly a little old lady, standing blankly at them through the window of the house which overlooks the garden they are in.

"She can't see us," Cry reassures him as he tosses a couple of potatoes he unearthed into the half-filled rusty bucket. "Unless we fire a gunshot or something, she won't start clawing her way out of the house to get us."

"But it's like she's _watching_ us," Pewdie whines nervously, eyeing the undead old woman, at the dried blood coating her white hair. "It's so creepy."

On a blazing hot afternoon a few days later, Pewdie looks at the gas tank meter and mutters, "We're almost out. Where's the nearest gas station?"

"Wasn't there one about a couple of miles back?" Cry recalls from his seat. He's busy eating a packet of peanuts while examining Map's frayed, dog-eared pages. Sometimes when he eats in the passenger seat, he absent-mindedly holds out whatever food he has for Pewdie to take. On other days, Cry becomes a selfish bitch and doesn't share a crumb of his food with him at all.

"Isn't there one anywhere up ahead?" Pewdie asks again.

"Nope," says Cry.

"Well, fuck."

About fifteen minutes later, the gas tank meter starts flashing.

"_Cry_," Pewdie wails, tapping the meter's clear plastic.

"We've got a hose," Cry says suddenly, straightening up in his seat. "In the trunk. You swiped it from that old lady's garden. We're finally about to put it to good use."

"If you're thinking what I'm thinking…" Pewdie murmurs, shooting suspicious glances at Cry because he already has visions of a car, a hose, a gas tank and a bucket in his mind. "But there aren't any cars around for us to do that."

"Actually, there _is_," Cry points at something up ahead and they see a couple of skid marks on the road leading to the remains of a small car which has collided against a tree. When Pewdie slowly pulls up beside it, they notice that only the front part of the car is crushed inwards, a branch punching a hole through the glass. The back of the car, including the trunk and gas tank, is fortunately still intact. There is thankfully no one inside, meaning that whoever the driver had been must have escaped the scene alive.

"Do you know how to do this?" Pewdie asks as he watches Cry unscrew the cap from the broken car's gas tank. The strong smell of petrol begins to fill the air.

"Actually no," Cry admits as he puts the cap aside and dangles the length of the hose in his hands. "I've never done this but I've seen someone else do it in a video once. You take a hose and then you've got to use your mouth to suck the gas out."

"That sounds like fun," Pewdie jokes half-heartedly.

Cry's gaze doesn't waver, "It isn't."

When they set to work, it doesn't help that the heat and the strong, dizzying smell of petrol begins to make them both irritable. Pewdie lets out a line of colourful curses in Swedish every time one end of the hose keeps slipping out of the gas tank while they work on tying the other end into a loop. When Pewdie trips over one of their gas jugs, Cry shoots him a glare at his clumsiness.

Once they set the hose in place, Cry is the first to try sucking on the looped end in order to draw the fuel out, but after several failed attempts, he looks ready to toss the whole thing onto the floor. When Pewdie takes over the job instead, he's more fruitful in his endeavour but unluckily for him, a small amount of petrol escapes through the loop and enters into his mouth.

"You okay?" Cry asks concernedly when Pewdie doesn't stop coughing and spluttering. Cry has the easier job, Pewdie thinks glumly, of holding the hose in place as gallons of petrol gush into the jugs.

"_No_," is what he spits out bitterly, not facing the other when he speaks. The taste of gas in his tongue is _revolting_ and he doesn't stop rinsing his mouth with their precious water until the water bottle is finished. A few minutes later, there are footsteps behind him and he feels Cry's hand lightly pat him on the back. He suddenly relaxes at the gesture. Somehow, he doesn't feel that much irritated by what he had to go through.

On one late morning, they drive into a strip mall littered with bodies. Upon closer inspection, it's obvious that they had all been zombies, and it seems that someone had rampaged through the area, killing each and every one of them in a number of different yet equally horrific ways. What they see, as they silently drive through, is disturbing. There's a body of a teenaged girl lying in a shallow drain with its head bashed open and its brains spilling out, while a headless man's body sits awkwardly against a blood-splattered brick wall. There is a small pile of burnt bodies stacked on top of each other like a bonfire, and someone has taken a shot to a zombie's face, obliterating almost all its features, leaving a gory hole where its eyes, cheeks, nose and mouth had been.

It's eerily silent here, not even the wind stirs the flag suspended in the middle of the parking lot.

"This is kind of creepy," Cry finally comments aloud as he gazes uneasily at the scene through his window. Whoever had killed all these zombies must have been utterly ruthless. For the first time in weeks, he feels a sense of fear not only towards the undead but also the living. He doesn't need to voice this out to Pewdie because he knows that the other is probably thinking the same thing.

His uneasiness quickly turns into alarm when Pewdie parks the car at an inconspicuous spot and turns off the engine. "What the hell are you _doing_?" Cry yelps.

"Supply run," says Pewdie breezily. "Look, all the zombies are dead. Which leaves the whole place to ourselves. If you're still unsure about this, bring your shovel." In reality, Pewdie also feels disturbed by the state of the dead zombies, by the way they were killed, but his guts tell him that this is a lucky opportunity that they should take while they still can.

After half an hour of some very thorough examination of the area, Pewdie's statement turns out to be true. There is nothing living or undead around anywhere and it is only then that Cry allows himself to relax. They end up staying at the strip mall for the entire day because of the kinds of shops available for them to look through – a few clothing stores, a supermarket, a hairdresser's, a bakery, a shoe shop, a music store and a few others. Although they discover that all of these shops have already been raided, there are still enough useful items left around for them to take.

When they enter a clothing outlet, they take the opportunity to change into fresh, new clothes. It's about time they do so since their old ones have become dirty, frayed and torn over time. They spend a while inside, trying out this and that, and when Cry is just adjusting the zipper of a new hoodie he had just put on, Pewdie strolls over and dumps a cap on top of his head.

"Perfect," Pewdie says with a theatrical wave of his hand.

"What the hell is this?" says Cry, pulling the cap off. It's a plain, cheap-looking cap with a flat brim imprinted with a rainbow-coloured cartoon duck. He gets the reference easily because Pewdie has a weird thing for ducks, but the cap turns out to be a little too big for him.

"To complete your look," Pewdie points out. "Also, to keep your hair in. It's starting to grow out of control."

"Well, _you're_ starting to look like a girl," Cry says insultingly, eyeing Pewdie's own locks. "Maybe you should get a haircut."

"Maybe _we_ should get haircuts," Pewdie suddenly corrects and it's not an argument he's presenting this time but a suggestion, and Cry recognises the reason behind it, remembers a crucial piece of advice Chuck gives in _The Walking Dead _game. If their hair grows long enough, it will become a liability since there's a higher chance of it getting grabbed by zombies' wandering hands.

He and Pewdie look at each other in mutual understanding before diverting their gazes outside, where they had spotted a hairdresser's on the way to this store. When they make their way there, they find to their disbelief that someone had taken away every sharp object from the place. The only thing they can use left is the pair of barber shears which have been stabbed into the back of a female zombie's curly head.

"This is disgusting," Pewdie moans in revulsion as he forces himself to hold down the zombie's head so that Cry can pull out the shears that are stuck into its skull.

Once they clean the shears the best they can, they take turns cutting off each other's hair. In the end though, it's Cry who is the worst of the two because Pewdie spends about ten minutes whining about how imbalanced it all looks now that it's trimmed short.

"Can't you see how this side is longer than the other?" Pewdie says, tugging at his shortened hair once they leave the hairdresser's. "If I had known you were bad at this, I would've–" his words trail off as he suddenly stops in front of the music store. When he doesn't move for a few seconds, Cry peers over his shoulder, trying to follow the direction of his gaze.

"What is it?" he asks, confused. There's nothing interesting inside. The glass displays have been smashed, its contents seized, and the interior of the store, like everywhere else, is dark and dusty from disuse.

Pewdie suddenly seizes him by the shoulder, almost knocking the cap that he had given him earlier on off his head, and points at something by the music store counter. Cry doesn't know how the other is able to see whatever it is he is pointing at from this distance and in this gloom, but thank god that he does.

"Batteries!" Pewdie exclaims happily. "I think I see some AAs. We're in luck, Cry. We've got batteries!" He feels Pewdie's hand wrap around his wrist before he is tugged into the shop.

Although there's only one packet containing four AA battery cells hanging from a display rack by the counter, they take it anyway because it's the best find they have in so many days. It assures them that they're one step closer to collecting the remaining number of batteries, one stop closer to making their CB radio work, one step closer to being saved.

"Good job, Cry," Pewdie congratulates him even though Cry isn't the one who had found the batteries. He grins widely, so brilliant it looks in the gloom of the music store, and silently offers his fist to him. Cry feels a warm feeling rise in his chest, bubbling out of his mouth in a huff of laughter, and bumps his own fist firmly against Pewdie's.

On the dawn of the following day, armed with a variety of new supplies which have been stowed away into the trunk, they drive off in the rising sunrise, leaving the strange, deathly strip mall behind them.

* * *

The days blur inconspicuously into weeks and soon, a month passes by.

Life on the road has its ups and downs and they do see their share of awful, unsettling things while travelling. One afternoon, they drive past a horde of zombies feasting on a live cow. The animal had been trying to escape their clutches in vain and when it collapses on the ground after an undead woman gnaws on one of its legs, the rest of the group fall onto it like a pack of lions on a gazette. It's a horrible sight to watch something alive being torn to bits in minutes and they quickly drive away before their car starts attracting attention.

Once, when they are driving down a small, dirt road, a pickup truck flashes past them, missing their car by inches, before swerving out of control. From a distance, they could just see the driver in the truck struggling in vain against a zombie whose teeth are buried into his shoulder. Pewdie's first instinct is to find some way of helping him but that idea is extinguished when the truck suddenly flips and rolls over several times before coming to land with the wheels up, the many tonnes of metal crushing both man and zombie into a pulp.

They decide to stop at a motel on another early evening as the sun begins to set so they could take a break from driving. However, when they enter the room they had chosen to stay in, they discover, to their horror, the bodies of a family of four involved in a mass suicide. The parents lie sprawled on the floor, their heads haloed by pools of blood leaking from the gunshot wounds on their temples. Two children, around ten to eleven years old, are curled together on a sofa, their blank faces deathly pale and the back of their heads bloody.

This is crazy, Cry gasps, appalled by the sight. It's terrible, what happened to these people. It's terrible to see how the world right now can drive a family to extreme measures like this.

Beside him, Pewdie turns his face away, unable to look at the scene before them any longer. A second later, he suddenly spins back sharply, looking terribly disturbed, before he brushes past Cry and leaves the room without another word.

"Pewds…?" Cry calls weakly, not wanting to be left alone in this terrible place. He glances over at wherever Pewdie had been facing and notices a bed there, realises exactly what the other had seen to make him react like that. There is something small lying on top of blood-splattered bed sheets and when he stares at it a little longer, he discerns a human-shaped bundle of clothes attached with two pairs of limbs. He sees a small arm that ends with a set of chubby little fingers belonging to an infant child. A large pillow covers its head, covering the worst of the blood stains.

Cry feels his blood turn cold. Suddenly, he feels unclean, he feels sick, he feels _wrong,_ and all he wants right now is get out of this room.

Pewdie is already in the car when he runs out of the motel room and they instantly drive away the moment Cry slips into the passenger seat. They drive in silence for a while before Cry glances over at Pewdie and sees him staring mournfully at the road before him. He is stunned to notice the tears that are silently running down the other's face.

"Pewds," Cry says softly, sadly and a little helplessly, because he doesn't know what he can do to make it better. How can you try and make it better after seeing something like that?

"Pewds," Cry calls again, even more softly, like a whisper, and this time, it rouses Pewdie out of his thoughts. "You're crying."

They have to stop the car for a while and Cry patiently waits to let Pewdie calm down and collect himself. After that, they don't talk about what they had seen and don't stop at any more motels they happen to pass by.

* * *

Despite this, despite all the perturbing things they've seen, it really isn't all that bad, this dangerous life they have now, since it doesn't really get boring in the car when they're roaring down an empty highway. When it does get a little quiet, Pewdie sometimes slips in a random CD from a collection they stole from the music store weeks ago and lets Cry sing along to all the tunes while he beat-boxes alongside him. Cry isn't a terribly good singer or a terribly bad one either but sometimes when he croons out songs, his voice goes a little too high-pitched and it makes Pewdie burst into fits of laughter that he can't control.

At times when Pewdie gets tired of driving, he lets Cry take the wheel but it's short-lived because Cry drives like a mad man and Pewdie spends most of that time gripping the passenger seat hard and telling Cry to "slow the fuck down."

When they come across a broken pipe that is continually gushing out water one day, they make the best of it by not only refilling all their bottles and containers, but also using it to wash every inch of poor, battered and dirty old Bluey until she shines under the sun. They also get into an inevitable water fight during the car wash at the same time.

That late evening, Cry wakes Pewdie up in the middle of the night and invites him outside. Pewdie is irritable at first because he gets tired driving for hours and it had taken him a while to find a place secluded enough for the car to rest for the night. Cry rolls his eyes at his complaints and motions for him to sit on the hood of the car.

"Look up," is what he says when he settles next to him, and Pewdie does.

The night sky is littered with a million twinkling stars and they shine so bright now that the world has literally descended into darkness. He thinks he's never seen anything so big and so beautiful in such a long time.

He doesn't know how long they sit there together, gazing up at the glittering sky, but when he comes back down to earth, he mutters sheepishly, "This is pretty cheesy." Because Cry waking him up just to let him witness this magnificent sight _is_ pretty cheesy. It's also a little bit romantic.

"It's one of the few things in the world that hasn't changed," Cry murmurs beside him. "And they're beautiful, aren't they? The stars? So, yeah. Of course this is pretty cheesy."

During the day, they spend most of the time talking, sharing with each other what they know about surviving a zombie apocalypse, discussing new tactics on better ways to either sneak past the undead or how to scavenge the most useful items. Sometimes, when they're not talking about something zombie-related, they would recall the videos they once made for their Youtube channels, laughing over the stupid things they did or reminisce on the kinds of videogames they played. The good thing about it is that it's easy to talk about these things with each other because it doesn't get old.

There is one thing that Cry never talks about, no matter how many times Pewdie tries to bring it up. Even when it does get brought up, Cry avoids mentioning anything further about it and lets the topic die naturally in the conversation. Pewdie notices it whenever he speaks about his family back home in Sweden, about Marzia or Maya. He notices it when he tries to ask Cry about his own family but the subject is always cut off, sometimes by a sudden change in topic or when Cry interrupts him with an announcement about the state of their supplies.

It's puzzling how Cry suddenly becomes guarded and shut off when their conversation turns to something related to their past lives – that is, their _real _lives when they are not called Pewdiepie and Cryaotic. To Pewdie, it's one of the ways he uses to cope with the world now because it helps him believe that the people he misses are safe out there and are waiting for him to come home. He misses them dearly, regrets that he had taken them for granted all along, so he uses the memory of them to keep him going. It's one of the reasons why he openly talks about them. He just doesn't understand why this isn't the case for Cry.

Pewdie doesn't know what happened to Cry's family when this hell began a couple of months ago. Cry has yet to mention what happened to him in detail in the three weeks before their reunion. What Pewdie has done to satisfy his own curiosity about the matter is to merely form speculations.

And then that day arrives, when the opportunity to talk about their past lives comes up, and Pewdie decides to take it because they're both in a good mood and Cry has been laughing hard at something he'd said for the past seven minutes. It's also one of those days when he lets Cry drive for a while. He thinks that maybe he can catch him off-guard this time.

"You never told me exactly what happened to you when this all started," Pewdie begins casually. At once, he catches the changing expression on Cry's face, notices how quickly the merriment slips out of his features. "I was at the airport, waiting for my flight and I had time to I call Marzia on the way there to tell her I was going to miss my plane. I got through to Ken after I got Bluey and drove out of the city. What about you? Did you get through to anyone?"

It's most direct thing he's said about the subject yet and Cry's response to this is a tense silence that even Pewdie can feel in the car. He notices that Cry has recoiled into his seat, his focus turned towards the road ahead.

"You didn't get through to anyone?" Pewdie says. "Did you try to find them? Your family or your friends? Search for them at the last place you expected them to be?"

There is more silence filled with tension from the driver's seat. Cry may have escaped this talk one too many times before with the use of interruptions and clever diversions, but not right now. Pewdie has sought him out, forced him to confront this subject and he can see that Cry is struggling to find a way out.

"It's okay, man," Pewdie coaxes gently, thinking that this direct approach may be freaking him out. "I mean, it's about time we talk about this, right? It was going to happen eventually. I got to be honest with you. I've been wondering about this for a while. Did something happen… to your family? Is that why you don't talk about them?"

"No," it's the first time Cry speaks. His voice is hoarse, his words sound forced, and the stubborn reluctance to pursue this topic is prominent on his face – from the furrow in his eyebrows to the downturn in his mouth. He starts to grip the steering wheel hard with his fingers.

"No?" Pewdie echoes because the answer alone doesn't tell him much. He lets the silence between them stretch and when Cry seems determined not to answer him, he sighs and resumes, "'No' as in 'something _didn't _happen to your family'? If that's the case, then maybe they're safe. Maybe they escaped just in time, like we did. I mean, we got through okay, right? Maybe _they_ did, too."

Pewdie becomes bewildered when the reassurance doesn't move Cry at all.

"You're worried you don't know what happened to them?" he guesses.

"Is it that you feel guilty because you haven't found them yet?" he tries again after failing to coax so much as a noise out of the other.

"Why won't you talk about your own family?" he says impatiently this time. "Why won't you talk about your own life? Why don't you say something? _Anything_?" He wishes they could stop the car so that he can make Cry _look _at him because the silence that he's receiving is beginning to unnerve him. It is like talking to a brick wall. Eventually, you just want to smash it just to get some sort of response.

"_Really_, Cry? This is–" This is ridiculous, what they're doing now. He didn't intend for this to happen, didn't expect their initial good mood to melt into the boiling pot they are standing in now. What started as a simple ploy to take advantage of Cry's good mood in order to get him to talk has turned into a battle of wills. He finds himself in the middle of a crisis of whether to continue pursuing this or drop it entirely because clearly, Cry does _not _want to talk about this. That much he knows already and really, it isn't his place to pry further into the details of Cry's life.

But _this_, right now, this stubborn muteness is fucking ridiculous, it's frustrating, it's downright childish, and for one mad second, Pewdie thinks that Cry is starting to become another inanimate object in his car that needs to be given a voice just so he doesn't go crazy from the silence.

And then he begins to go too far.

"Could it be that you just don't want to think about what happened to them?" Pewdie says, or rather he _sneers_ it because if the gentle approach isn't working, he will try mocking, he will try light-hearted banter, he will try something _else_ if he can. He just wants Cry to say something. "You don't want to entertain the idea that maybe they _didn't_ make it? Maybe they got caught on the way. That's why they couldn't make it back. That's why you didn't get to see them."

He keeps his eyes on Cry when he says all this, wants to see if his words can stir something out of him. But Cry remains stuck in stony silence, his expression carefully blank as he continues to focus on the road ahead as he drives.

"Maybe you _did_ spend those three weeks looking for them," Pewdie rambles on. "But you couldn't find any clues as to where they'd gone so you gave up. Is that it then? The reason why you don't want to talk about this? Is it because you _gave_ up?" He doesn't know if what he says may be the truth or something close to it. He's just bullshitting now, merely voicing out his speculations unless Cry intervenes and tells him that everything he says is wrong.

_You should stop, Pewdie. _He isn't sure if it's Map or GPS or Torchy who is warning him to drop the subject. He isn't even sure if _he's_ the one who is telling himself that. He can't stop, he can't seem to stop himself from speaking. Something is boiling in his chest, growing all the more intense as Cry continues to look forward, refusing to look at him and there's just nothing happening and– goddamn it, Pewdie doesn't even know if Cry is even _listening _to him, the bastard.

"Or maybe it's something else," he gnashes out, becoming increasingly frustrated at the continued lack of response. "Maybe you _did_ find them. But it was too late to save them." He sees Cry's back tense a little. _Oh_, was he actually listening all this time then? What would it take to get Cry to make a sound? "Maybe you're guilty because you couldn't save them. Is that it? Tell me I'm wrong, Cry." God, he needs to stop. Why can't he stop?

"Stop being such a wuss," Pewdie begins taunting, his voice growing louder. "This is about your family. Why are you so scared of talking about them?" He shouldn't do this. It's unfair to Cry, who is breathing hard now, who is gripping the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles have turned white, who is barely blinking as he stares determinedly at the road before them. But the _silence_. The silence just continues to make Pewdie even more aggravated.

"Goddamn it, Cry," he almost barks it out, throwing himself back in his seat in frustration. "Man up and tell me what the fuck is _wrong_ with you–"

Then his gaze falls on the road ahead – and he spots a zombie there in the middle of the road, a small thing like a child that's not so easily seen and it just lingers there in a daze, baking and decomposing in the sun.

And they are hurtling straight towards it.

"Cry," he calls in alarm, glancing over at the other and Cry is still staring straight ahead but his eyes are glazed over. He's not seeing anything. He doesn't _see_ what they're driving towards.

"_Cry_!" Pewdie yells sharply.

"What–?" Cry utters, snapping out of his trance, and he sees the zombie child standing in their way and startles in surprise, jerking the car to the side by reflex.

The next thing they know, their world outside becomes a blur of colours and suddenly, they're no longer driving on smooth tarmac but on bumpy and uneven ground, kicking up dirt and dust, and Pewdie is screaming for Cry to stop the car and Cry is screaming for Pewdie to shut up as he tries in vain to keep the wheel steady while stamping his foot hard on the brakes.

The car slams into an unseen bump, the impact jerking them against their seatbelts, and they sail into the air for a second before they're plunging downwards into a steep ditch and something explodes into their faces, turning everything in their visions white.


	5. Chapter 5

Massive thanks to **suikalopolis **for helping me fix this chapter up and making it sound a little more realistic.

So this is when it gets good and then it gets bad and then it gets good again. Kind of.

Feel free to pause and refill your mug of tea anytime because you've got this **10,242-word** monster chapter to conquer, dear readers.

Do sit back, imagine, and enjoy.

* * *

**05.**

When Cry opens his eyes, he finds an airbag cushioning his face. The world around him slowly comes back to focus and there's a high pitched ringing in his ears. His head feels awfully heavy, like it is threatening to fall off of his neck. He also finds his glasses jabbing into his face, the seatbelt strap digging into his chest, and he's hanging from his seat at an almost vertical angle. That's when it hits him.

That's it, the _car_, he suddenly recalls. He'd lost control of the car and they'd swerved off the road and crashed down here. He feels numb from the shock yet his thoughts come to taunt him – how ironic it is, Cry thinks, that karma decides to reward him with a ditch to die in. It's over now. This is it. He wants to rest, wants to close his eyes and let the darkness take him. Death is coming for him at any moment.

Then he hears Pewdie's voice, desperately calling his name from the passenger seat, "Cry! Talk to me, Cry! _Cry!_"

Cry groans into his airbag in response and checks whether his limbs are still working fine and that he can move his hands. Although nothing seems to be broken, when he tries to shift his legs, he finds that he can't move the one nearest to his door. Something seems to be pressing onto it hard.

He doesn't even realise that Pewdie has been blabbering uncontrollably for the last minute until he hears his name again.

"–Thank fuck you're alive, Cry," Pewdie is saying quickly in relief. "I thought you might have gotten the worse of it but you're fine now, right? Are you hurt? Tell me you're not hurt. Please say something, Cry. Can you say my name? Please say my name and tell me you're okay."

"Pewds," Cry gasps out, and he pulls his heavy head back from the cushioning airbag to see the state of the car.

The first thing he sees is the windshield, still intact, and beyond that, the hood of the car, which has been popped open and crumpled inwards from its collision into the ground. The car had plummeted nose-first into a dirt ditch at an almost 70 degrees angle. There seems to be nothing else inside the car which has been affected by the crash except the cracked rear-view mirror. Cry turns his head to see that Pewdie, too, is hanging from his own seat, the seatbelt strapped around him being the only thing that's stopping him from falling out of it.

Pewdie looks mostly unhurt but his face is pale with shock. When he sees Cry emerge from the airbag, he brightens with relief.

"You're okay," he says breathlessly. "We've got to get out of here. Can you reach the door? Can you open it?"

Cry turns his head to the other side, letting the deployed airbag pillow his heavy head once more, and tries to reach for the door. His fingers tug at the door handle but he cannot summon enough strength to pull it back far enough to unclasp the door's lock.

"…Can you do it, Cry?" comes Pewdie's voice, sounding increasingly agitated. "Can you reach it? Can you open it? Can you do it?"

"Pewds," Cry grits out irritably because Pewdie needs to stop talking now. His voice and his strangely repetitive words are making his head hurt and it doesn't help that his ears are still ringing that annoying high-pitched _ping_.

"Cry, Cry, we need to get out of here," Pewdie continues to babble from the passenger seat. "We've got to open the door first. You need to open the door first, don't undo your seatbelt yet–"

"_Pewds_," Cry pushes the airbag roughly away, tugging the whole thing off him and letting it crumple against the windshield. When he shoots an irritated glare over at Pewdie's direction, he realises that Pewdie's babbling is just the beginning of a panic attack.

"You're not hurt, right?" Pewdie says quickly and his breathing is coming out in gasps, in pants. "We're gonna be okay, Cry. We'll be fine. We need to get out. We've got to get–" he suddenly cuts short and begins to hyperventilate, his chest rising and falling with every rapid, ragged breath he takes. His face is beginning to slowly turn red.

"Oh shit," Cry wants to get over there and stop him but he's held back by his seatbelt and whatever it is that's clamping his leg down. He vaguely motions for Pewdie's attention with a flailing hand and when he fails to catch his eye, Cry reaches across the space between them and grabs onto his forearm, squeezing it.

"Look at me," says Cry frantically. "Look at me, Pewds. You're panicking, you're _panicking_. You need to calm the fuck _down_."

He's relieved when Pewdie's eyes meet his, when he reaches up and wraps his hand around Cry's own forearm. This assurance is short-lived though because Cry can feel the other shaking uncontrollably underneath his fingers.

"Breathe slowly," Cry tells him, fighting to keep his voice and his composure calm. The last thing he wants right now is for Pewdie to pass out. "Keep your eyes on me. Now breathe _slowly_. Deep breaths, in and out. Come on. You can do it. In and out. Just follow what I'm doing. Breathe like I do."

Pewdie follows his instructions, keeping his gaze on him as he struggles to steady his frighteningly heavy, ragged breathing. They keep at it for several minutes, holding onto each other for support as Cry reassures him, coaxes Pewdie to breathe as slowly as he is. After what seems like ten minutes of them staring at each other and drawing long synchronized breaths, Pewdie finally calms down and regains his composure. Cry slowly lets go of his arm.

"Are you alright? Are you hurt?" Cry asks, wishing he isn't sitting in this angle because it's scrambling his sense of balance and his brain doesn't know which way is the right way up. He feels an urge to release himself from his restraining seatbelt so he can stand upright again – and that's when he suddenly remembers his leg, the one that's trapped under the seat, and he realises with horror that it's frighteningly _numb_ right now, he can't feel anything, he knows that it's there but he can't feel his toes, why is that, is it still even there unless… unless something _happened_ to it oh god something must've happened to it–

"I'm fine," Pewdie's voice, a little groggy but sounding sober, pulls him out of his panicked thoughts. Cry looks over and sees the other pushing his hair out of his face. And then, "We need to get out of here, Cry," he says again.

"Yeah…" Cry says weakly and he's scared again, scared about his leg and he doesn't know how to tell Pewdie about this. "Can you open _your_ door?" Cry asks instead, motioning towards the passenger door on Pewdie's side. "I can't reach mine."

He watches as Pewdie extends his arm and his fingers can just about curl under the door handle. After giving it a couple of tugs, it finally releases the latch and Pewdie brings his leg up, clumsily kicks the door and it swings open with a _creak_ and then there's wonderful fresh air rushing into the car, bringing with it the warm sunlight and a cool breeze which make them both pause to breathe it all in.

Pewdie then curls his arm around his headrest, plants his feet onto the dashboard and undoes his seatbelt. The straps release him but its sudden, snapping momentum throws his balance off, leaving him stumbling unsteadily on his feet before he tilts and falls against the door frame, his head hitting it lightly with a dull _thud_.

_Pewds_! Cry wants to call out but is stopped when the whole car shakes from the impact.

"I-I'm okay," Pewdie reassures him, noticing Cry's look of panic. He pushes himself onto his feet, finding some purchase on top of the glove compartment and tries not to sway on the spot. Cry can see that he's still trying to recover from his panic attack.

"Hang in there, Cry," Pewdie says shakily, carefully picking his way on the dashboard to get to him with one hand bracing against the wall of the car. "I'm going to try and open your door for you. Just sit tight."

The car groans as Pewdie moves across the dashboard and for one terrifying second, the whole thing shifts an inch, making Cry gasp and Pewdie freeze in his tracks. Suddenly, everything seems unstable to Cry and he has a horrible vision of the car flipping over and crushing them both under its weight. When Pewdie takes a cautious step forward, Cry whimpers out, "Don't–"

"It's okay," Pewdie cuts in, letting in a deep breath and continues to inch closer to the driver's seat, using anything and everything he can reach as a support. "Just don't move. I'll get you out."

It's terribly cramped in the car and there is not a lot of space to move in. At one point, Pewdie's unsteady movements make him trip over the protruding gear stick and Cry can't help but yelp angrily when the other man's elbow knocks into his jaw. Finally, when Pewdie gains a somewhat secure footing, he leans one arm across Cry's chest so that he can reach the door handle on the other side.

"Can't reach," Pewdie gasps, shifting even closer until he's almost on top of Cry. Cry isn't sure if this close proximity is comforting or making him agitated even more. "Just a bit further."

He sees Pewdie's fingers grasp the handle of the door before pulling it. Pewdie then shoots Cry an apologetic look, hooks an arm over his headrest, braces a hand on the ceiling and swings a kick towards the door.

The whole car gives another worrying shudder at the impact and Cry really wants to tell him to stop because – what if the car _tilts,_ what if it falls over and they get crushed, what if–? But Pewdie kicks even harder at the door again, the sound making Cry flinch, but the door doesn't even budge.

"It's jammed," Pewdie mutters, turning his head to face Cry. They're so close to each other that Cry can see the anxiety in Pewdie's blue eyes, can see the faint scar across his eyebrow from their first raid together. "Cry, you're gonna have to come out from my side."

"I can't," Cry reveals regretfully, suddenly feeling sick. "My leg is stuck. I can't move it."

Something changes in Pewdie's face and Cry recognises the mixture of fear and dread in his features. After a second or two, Pewdie's voice comes out shaky as he asks, "Oh-okay, okay. Is it – Is it broken?"

"I don't know," Cry answers truthfully, faintly. "I don't know. But it feels a bit numb."

Pewdie lays a reassuring hand on his shoulder, having recognised Cry's own dread. "Hang in there, Cry. I'll – I'll get you out. It's gonna be okay."

He backs away a little and crouches on the floor, peering through the gear stick and into the gloom to roughly discern whatever it is that's keeping Cry's leg trapped. A few seconds later, Pewdie pulls himself up. "The door's been dented in," he explains a little worriedly. "That could explain why it can't open and also why your leg is stuck. I think Bluey hit something and a bit of her got crushed in."

_Crushed –_? Cry tries very, _very_ hard to fight off the images of a crushed, bloody leg that is attached to his body. "Is it really bad…?" he dares to ask in bated breath and finds that his voice has gone high-pitched all of a sudden.

"It doesn't look too bad," Pewdie informs. "But I don't know. Just… just hang in there, Cry, okay? I'll find a way to get you out."

"Pewds–" Cry says quietly. If there's a possibility that his leg turns out to be really bad, if it turns out that there's no way to get Cry out of this wreckage, then Pewdie should just–

"I'm _not_ leaving you, Cry," says Pewdie firmly, having guessed his thoughts. "I'll get you out."

The assertion, spoken so resolutely, warms something in Cry's heart, pushing away the fear he feels for his possible fate. He decides that he doesn't want to give up just yet, doesn't want to get left behind and he certainly does not want to die in a fucking _ditch _like this.

Pewdie is already busy examining his seat and its surrounding items, looking for a possible solution to their problem. When he then straightens up again, he says, "I don't think we can pull you out from this end. It's got to be upwards. We've got to pull you up and _out_." Then he holds up one finger and raises it into the air.

Cry's eyes follow the direction of his finger and he turns his head to see the backseat and its window showing the view of the grey sky outside. That's when Cry realises that the back of their Ford Fiesta car is concave shaped, meaning that there's easy access between the back seat and the trunk from the inside of the car. If they just open the trunk door and lower the back seats, this will provide them with an alternative exit to escape through. _We've got to pull you up and _out_, _Pewdie's words remind him.

_Oh my god_, Cry thinks, amazed by Pewdie's quick thinking. _Genius Pewds strikes again._

Unable to do much, Cry waits and watches Pewdie squeeze through the space between their seats and climb up to the backseat behind him. He watches from the cracked rear-view mirror as Pewdie picks up and tosses out some of their things through the opened passenger door, including the battered, doggy-eared road map. When he climbs back down to the front, he's sweating from the exertion and after offering another quick assurance to Cry, he finally makes his way towards the open door.

"Be careful," Cry says quietly and watches Pewdie's form slip out of the open car door and drop onto the ground outside.

The wait is nerve-wracking for Cry who realises that he is now alone in the car, trapped in its wreckage. All he can do as he sits, strapped to his seat, is listen carefully to the sounds that are happening outside, of Pewdie's footsteps scraping the ground, scratching the dirt as he climbs up the slope of the ditch. He's relieved when he is able to see Pewdie's reflection from the cracked rear-view window as he arrives at the top of the slope and stands over the back window of the trunk. When Pewdie notices him staring in the mirror, he smiles a little and gives an awkward wave.

A few seconds later, Cry hears the trunk pop open behind him and sunlight pours into the car, lightening up its interior. He lets out a long sigh from his seat, unable to comprehend why he feels relieved by the warm golden rays.

There are more noises coming from the trunk and from what Cry can see from the rear-view mirror, it looks like Pewdie is clearing out everything they have in that spacious back compartment, tossing them down into the ditch. He catches glimpses their backpacks, their cans of food, his shovel – all of which sail into the air only to drop to the bottom. Once Pewdie finishes, he lowers himself into the trunk and begins to recline the backseats. He doesn't speak while he works and it's a strange sight to behold. Cry has never seen Pewdie look so focused and so concentrated while performing a task like this before.

"Okay," Pewdie says once he finishes. "Push your seat as far back as you can and lie down, Cry."

Cry does, pulling the seat lever up and pushing the backrest until he is almost lying down. Then Pewdie lowers himself once more into the car, taking his time to find a footing which can support his whole weight until he ends up hovering above Cry's reclined seat. It's such an awkward position to be in because Cry finds himself lying in between Pewdie's legs. One of Pewdie's feet is planted firmly on the back of the upright passenger seat across from him, while his other rests on the wall somewhere near his ear. Before Cry has time to further think about their weird positioning, he suddenly feels a pair of warm arms slip under his armpits in a secure grip.

"I've got you," Pewdie's voice sounds out from somewhere above his head. He sounds a little out of breath and Cry doesn't blame him for the amount of energy he must have used just to climb back inside the car without falling. "You need to undo your seatbelt. Then I'll pull your leg out… It's gonna be okay, Cry."

At once, a spike of fear settles back in his chest. He feels afraid once more, afraid of what they might see if they managed to pull his leg free. He manages to nod dumbly in response, not trusting himself to speak, and unclasps his seatbelt.

On either side of him, he feels the muscles in Pewdie's legs tense as the latter digs his feet into its supports and begins to push himself upwards. Cry feels himself being lifted by the grip under his arms but his ascent is cut short by his trapped leg. Pewdie tugs him upwards again, harder this time, but like the door in the driver's side, Cry's leg doesn't so much as budge. It occurs to Cry then that he still has one leg that's free so he plants his foot onto the dashboard, braces his hands against whatever he can reach as support, and he pushes himself up at the same time when Pewdie pulls.

They keep at it for a while, coordinating their movements of pushing and pulling upwards to reach the open trunk door, and it's exhausting for Cry whose hope for being saved slowly dwindles the more they tug at his trapped leg only to result in nothing happening. He's starting to believe that the only way to get him out would probably be to cut the car open with some heavy machinery that is obviously not at their disposal. The only thing that stops him from fully giving up is because of Pewdie, who continues to pull him upwards with all his might and doesn't look like he's showing any signs of stopping.

Finally, when Pewdie gives a particularly hard yank, growling at the exertion, Cry feels his trapped leg stir and slide upwards and he utters an exclamation of surprise.

"It's working?" Pewdie speaks for the first time in how many minutes and Cry feels him adjusting his grip under his arms, his breathing hard and slow. "Okay, okay, this is it, Cry. When I pull, you push hard, okay? Here we go. One, two…" and Cry pushes his free leg down on the dashboard with as much strength as he can, uses his arms to hoist himself upwards and the length of his body protests at the forced struggle, and then he feels his trapped leg slide again and yes, fuck _yes_, it's working, he's moving a little, there it goes, his knee just got free from whatever is keeping it stuck there, _yes_ they need to keep doing this, just keep pushing hard, Cry, because it's fucking _working_ right now. He feels Pewdie's shoe bump into the side of his head from where he digs his foot onto the shoulder of his seat and it's shaking at the amount of force he's using to heave them upwards–

And then his leg _slides_ free and he falls backwards onto Pewdie and he hears him squawk behind him as the back of his head knocks into the latter's face. He doesn't notice this immediately though because the instant his leg is released from its prison, it becomes assaulted by a vicious stream of pins and needles which gush up and down the length of the limb, and Cry yelps in pain at the sudden sensation.

He manages to look at his freed leg for a second and it's not crushed at all, it looks _fine_, but he doesn't have time to think further on this because Pewdie begins to pull him upwards again and this time, his whole body follows. He helps with the effort, grasping at any support he can reach and uses it to haul them both up, his numb leg dragging under him. It's slow work and he doesn't know how long they keep at it but the next thing he knows, they're climbing out of the trunk and into sunlight, into freedom, and with one final tug, they're out. He feels Pewdie's body loosening against him, exhausted from the overexertion, and then they're both tumbling down the slope, rolling to a stop at the bottom of the ditch.

Cry thinks he might have blacked out for a bit but when he returns to consciousness, he's gasping for breath, his chest heaving up and down. His whole body feels sore and he doesn't want to move. He's never felt so tired like this before, lying eagle-spread on the ground, staring up at the cloudy skies – and they are beautiful skies too. The clouds are fluffy with a tinge of grey and the sun's right over there and it'll soon begin to descend…

Something grabs onto his foot and a pair of hands are hurriedly pushing up the hem of his pant leg. Cry starts, scrambling up into a sitting position and is ready to kick at whatever it is that has grabbed him, but stops struggling when he finds Pewdie there, sliding up the cloth so he can examine his leg. It's uninjured – thank _god_ – and it doesn't look broken or fractured, but there is a massive bruise that's swelling and turning blue spreading down the length of his shin. Pewdie is carefully prodding it, lightly squeezing it as he thoroughly checks for broken bones. Cry tries hard not flinch at the pain but focuses instead on Pewdie's face, on his expression which is still fixed in concentration. It's only when Pewdie is satisfied with his find that the contours in his features loosen and he lets go of Cry's leg and sits back, sighing deeply in relief.

"It's not broken," is what he gasps out, throwing his head back. Cry examines his own leg, which still hurts from the pins and needles and the bruise, and tries to wiggle his toes in his shoe. Then he, too, sits back on the heels of his hands and breathes.

They sit together side by side and eventually realise that they're both looking at the remains of the blue Ford Fiesta. It's an incredible sight to see something so familiar as their car in this state, its body erected in the air at an almost vertical angle, its nose crumpled inwards by the uncontrollable dive into the ditch, the trunk door wide open in the back. It's unreal to think that moments ago they were both trapped inside, that they had spent a long time trying to climb out of it, that Cry had been strapped into his seat and couldn't move because his leg had been stuck. It's amazing to realise that they'd gotten away from this accident unscathed once more. Just how long will their luck continue to last like this?

As Cry stares in fascination at their ruined car, he gradually becomes aware of Pewdie breathing beside him, feels the comforting warmth radiating from his body, remembers the look of concentration on his face when they'd struggled to climb up to reach the sunlight and feels something stir within his chest. It is hard to describe but he knows it's a powerful feeling, something like relief and gratitude and respect directed towards the other man. He feels indebted to Pewdie for his effort and his show of perseverance, feels strangely closer to him now after their combined effort to escape the wreckage of the car together. He also feels incredibly grateful that Pewdie refused leave him behind.

At this realisation, Cry feels a sudden urge to take Pewdie's hand. He wants to say thank you for not giving up on him, for not wanting to leave him behind, for saving his life – but he doesn't. He can't find the right words yet. So he curls his hand that's nearest to Pewdie's into a fist to stop himself from reaching out.

There is a look of grave sadness on Pewdie's face when Cry shoots a glance over at him. The other man is staring silently up at their ruined car, at Bluey, and Cry imagines him mourning silently for it in his head and instantly feels regret for having caused this. How can he not see anything on the road? Why was he so caught up in his thoughts – caught up in blocking Pewdie's voice and his words out of his head that he had shut himself off of everything else and didn't see what he was driving towards?

Cry didn't just lose them their mode of transportation, he lost them their home for the past month. He feels like the worst person in the world.

After two minutes of stillness, Cry awkwardly says, "We can't stay here too long. The sound of the crash could've attracted attention."

Pewdie sighs deeply beside him and gets up, taking a couple of steps forward before he places his hand onto the body of car. "You've been a noble steed," he says in a theatrical voice even though Cry knows he genuinely means everything he says. "Thanks for looking after us, Bluey."

For a moment, Cry feels whatever it is that Pewdie is feeling, and hangs his head in shame.

"Come on," says Pewdie after he turns away from the car. His voice is light and back to its usual tenor. "Ah, you should just chill around for a bit," he recommends, gazing down at the bruise that's swelling on Cry's still exposed shin. Embarrassed by the attention, Cry hurriedly pushes his pant leg back down and tries to get up.

"Whoa, whoa, stay put, will you," Pewdie waves him down. "Just don't move for a second. I'll go gather up our stuff and we get the heck out of here."

Cry silently watches Pewdie collect the things that he had thrown out of the car which lay scattered all around them. Although some of their things had to be left behind, Pewdie packs whatever he can into their two backpacks and when he is done, he walks over to Cry to hand him his bag and his shovel. In addition, he plops the rainbow duck cap on top of his head and steps back, looking satisfied. Cry happened to catch a glimpse of the inside of Pewdie's jacket when the other man had leaned down and he sees the road map stuffed hurriedly into the inner pocket. He tries not to burst into giggles as he pushes himself up to his feet.

And his stupid, bruised leg collapses underneath him and Pewdie is suddenly there, pulling Cry's arm around his shoulders and steadying him on his feet.

"I can walk," Cry says stubbornly even though his bruised leg is still tingling with pins and needles.

"Sure you can," says Pewdie sarcastically. They're close enough to each other again for Cry to see the impish twinkle in his eyes. "Just don't slow me down, bro."

"You suck," Cry mutters and suddenly feels Pewdie freeze against him. He finds himself holding his breath as well.

In the distance, coming from over the slope of the ditch, they hear the faint sound of rustling footsteps and quiet moaning voices coming closer to them. Cry feels a flash of panic hit his chest. It seems the undead are already on their way here.

Cry turns to meet Pewdie's gaze and sees the suggestion in his eyes. He nods silently in agreement before Pewdie begins to help him walk, coaxes Cry to put down one step after the other. Cry tries hard to move fast as he limps his way forward while ignoring the burning sensation in his leg. Eventually, they make their way further down the length of the ditch, anywhere that is far away from the approaching zombies and the wrecked remains of their car.

* * *

Travelling by foot, Pewdie discovers, is very different compared to travelling by car. For one thing, it involves a lot of brisk walking, little rest and constant vigilance. It's also a new kind of hell for him.

It isn't so bad on the first day after they've lost Bluey. Due to Cry's bruised leg, their progress on foot had been slow so there were a lot of short breaks taken between their walks. This all changes though when they find a stream one morning. Deciding to rest, they spend a few hours by its bank where Cry sits on the edge and submerges his whole leg under the cool water to relieve the bruise. By the time he gets up, the swelling has gone down and he looks fit enough to walk and run.

After that, Cry's demeanour changes. He becomes focused on getting them to keep moving forward so they never stay in one place for too long. He brings their pace up a few notches and there's no end to it, this moving on and on through fields and thin woods, searching aimlessly for an unknown destination. Pewdie has never had to put so much effort in walking for miles and miles without stopping before. He's also never put so much effort walking for miles with a backpack full of stuff weighing him down as well.

Unlike him, Cry quickly adapts himself to their new situation and it isn't exactly surprising since Cry spent the first three weeks of this zombie hell travelling on foot after all. Because of this, Pewdie feels a little envious that the other is faring so much better than he is. He knows he's extremely out of shape. His stamina is much shorter than Cry's and he gets tired easily after at least an hour of nonstop brisk walking. It's even worse when they're climbing up the slope of a hill so they can reach higher ground. Although Cry struggles to scale his way upwards, his pace doesn't so much waver. Pewdie, on the other hand, has to stop frequently after five steps to catch his breath and then scramble up the slope to reach Cry, who is already about ten feet above him.

Pewdie once asks Cry why they're travelling so fast like this, why they aren't allowed to stay at one place for more than two hours and Cry tells him it's not safe, it's never safe when you're travelling on solid ground. It might have been easy to relax when you're driving in a car, safe and secure within the walls of a moving vehicle, but once you're back outside, you're vulnerable, helpless, so it's necessary to keep your guard up at all times.

Except Pewdie secretly thinks it's unfair that they not only had to travel during the daytime, Cry makes them continue doing more of it at night. Even when they had Bluey back then, Pewdie made it a habit to stop the car once in a while to rest when it's night time.

Cry rarely sleeps when they're travelling at night though. He only catches snatches of it, allows his eyes to rest for ten to twenty minutes before he's up and moving again. This only happens when he tells Pewdie to keep watch while he naps. When it's Pewdie's turn to sleep, he thinks his body barely starts recovering energy before he is shaken awake by Cry two hours later with instructions that they should ready their flashlights and keep walking.

What results from this, this constant tendency to keep vigilant of their surroundings at all times, whether it be night or day, naturally makes Pewdie rather irritable. And when he's irritable, he tends to whine. A lot.

"You're going too fast, Cry," he complains when Cry is a couple of paces further than he is. "You're going to end up leaving me behind."

"Goddamn it, not another fucking hill. Why is this place so fucking hilly anyway?"

"Cry, we should stop for food. It's been hours since our last meal."

"I think I have a blister on my heel. Just give me a fucking minute, will you."

"It's so hot out here. Sun, go away and come back when we call you, geez."

"Cry, do you even know where the fuck we're going?"

One day, Pewdie irritably huffs out, "Can't we just hotwire another car instead of just going on like this for days?"

That's when Cry decides to sarcastically reply, "What a good idea. Why don't you go look for that car and I'll just continue on my way? At least the reassurance might calm us both down."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Pewdie says suspiciously.

"That's _exactly _what it's supposed to mean," Cry replies through a mutter, not turning around. Pewdie can't see his expression thanks to the flat brim of his cap so he narrows his eyes into a glare and doesn't say anything. He understands what Cry is hinting at, that Pewdie is complaining way too much about everything and Cry is getting tired of hearing it, and this is why he chooses not to argue.

There are other days though when Cry's sarcastic replies to Pewdie's persistent whining blooms into all out bickering between the two of them.

"No, I don't want to," Pewdie says with a shake of his head. He's tired of walking for hours and he just wants to sit down on this pretty comfortable boulder and rest his aching feet. But Cry isn't having any of that and is telling him to keep moving.

"Pewds, get up from there and get going. We're losing daylight," Cry points out insistently.

"No point," Pewdie says curtly. "We'll still keep moving after dark anyway."

"Just get up off that stupid rock. We have to keep going. God, can't you just shut up and do it?" Cry huffs out in irritation, sounding impatient.

"Geez, why are you being so bossy all the time?" Pewdie asks.

"Bossy? Why are you so goddamn _noisy_ all the time?" Cry shoots back.

"I don't know, man. Maybe because I'm so fucking tired and sleep-deprived."

"And you think _I'm _not either of those too?"

"Of _course_ not. If you were, you'd be complaining about this as much as I am."

"Unlike you, Pewds. I have to tolerate this shit because you know why? It might save my life somehow."

"What's the harm in slowing down anyway? We're not in a hurry to win some race, right? For the past three days, we haven't even come across a single _zombie_."

"That doesn't mean we have to let our guard down."

"I can't even let my guard _up_ if I don't get enough fucking rest, Cry."

"If you want to rest, we'll have to find a safe place that's not out in the open. Here isn't the most ideal place, you know."

"How can this place not be safe? It's quiet. There's nothing around. If we hear noises, we'll just run."

"That's not the point. Now, get off that rock and get over here."

"No, I won't."

"Get _off _the fucking rock."

"Look, give me just a minute, a _second – _to rest. Is that so fucking hard for you?"

Cry waves a dismissing hand in the air in exasperation, "You know what? Whatever, man. You win. Go and have your goddamn rest. You're free to rest as long as you want."

Pewdie fights back a satisfied grin at the defeated tone in Cry's voice. Just as he settles back onto the boulder, he's stunned when Cry turns and resumes walking towards the direction they are heading, leaving him behind.

"Cry?" Pewdie calls uneasily when Cry doesn't stop, moving farther away from him. "You're not going to–" when Cry doesn't turn around, raging irritation returns into Pewdie's chest and he fights off the urge to scream at Cry's retreating back.

"Oh, oh _fine._ Is that what you want then?" he snaps, appalled by the other's stubbornness. He cannot believe this. All he wants is to fucking rest for one minute and Cry just keeps walking away and he just _leaves_ like that and doesn't _care_. Pewdie feels tempted to stay put and let Cry go ahead but he doesn't want to be left alone like this, in the eerie wilderness, so he forces himself to get off the boulder and scamper after him. He's never felt so annoyed by the other before in his life. They usually get along so well in the past even though they do fall into the occasional squabbling about petty things, but it's never serious enough to leave them in bad blood like this.

When he catches up to Cry, he makes sure he walks behind him. His feet ache in protest, sending throbs of pain up his legs every time he puts pressure on them but he forces himself to keep moving. As he glares at the back of Cry's head, he feels an urge to throw something at him but because he's got nothing on him now, he hurls complaints into the air instead. Cry might have won this round but that doesn't mean that Pewdie will stay quiet about how unfair this is either.

"Oh don't mind me," Pewdie says sarcastically to Cry's back, only because the other seems determined not to look around. "Let's just keep walking until Pewdie's feet fall off. We don't need to rest. We've got to be somewhere anyway. And who the hell needs sleep? What sleep? Rest is for the weak. We don't have to stop to eat either because it's not like we've got basic needs anyway, right? Let's just keep moving and if Pewdie dies from exhaustion, there's no point in stopping. He's just being melodramatic. Don't mind him. Don't mind him at all. Let's just keep fucking moving, guys."

And he keeps this up for another hour until the sun begins to sink in the horizon. By then, his movements begin to turn sluggish, his feet and his entire body just generally hurt all over and even his words are spent so he falls into silence. The irritation he feels for Cry continues to simmer in this chest though and Pewdie decides he's not going to forgive Cry for not letting him rest. All throughout that long hour, Cry doesn't turn around to check up on him.

They both remain in tense, begrudging silence as they pick their way through the terrain they are passing through while the sun gradually dips into the horizon beside them.

* * *

Cry usually tolerates Pewdie. They've known each other for years after all and having only recently started travelling together, gradually got to know their living habits. Cry knows Pewdie's little annoying habits which he can't help and he learns to tolerate those. He knows about Pewdie's recent weird tendency to talk to inanimate objects and have them answer back to him with his own voice. He tolerates even that too. But sometimes, even _he_ has a limit. Ever since they started travelling on foot, it's been one complaint after another and eventually, Pewdie's grating voice scratches against the wall of Cry's patience so often enough that it becomes a crack.

When Pewdie plops himself down on a boulder and refuses to get up, that's when his patience runs out. He knows there's no point in trying to argue with him and get him to do what he says because Pewdie can be as stubborn as he is. So he gives up because he really doesn't care anymore, turns around and – for the first time, walks off.

It occurs to him that he's overdoing it – him walking off and leaving Pewdie behind, because he's never done this to him before, isn't close enough to the other man that their bouts of bickering could result to him throwing everything down and leaving. He knows that Pewdie is as astonished as he is of his own behaviour because he catches the other's stunned silence when he continues on walking. About a second later, Pewdie snaps out of that hesitation and begins to throw sarcastic remarks at his back.

An hour later, Pewdie's complaints stop altogether and Cry can hear him silently trudging behind him. He still doesn't want to turn around to look at him because Cry is still pissed at Pewdie so he forces himself to walk on. He does, however, consider finding a place for them to rest for the whole night because maybe he _has_ overreacted a little bit and feels a little guilty for being so inconsiderate towards Pewdie, seeing that the other man had pulled him out of their wrecked car.

They find a rickety, wooden bridge built above another small stream by the time the moon rises halfway up the clear night sky. Cry decides that they camp out here and goes to build a fire since it's become cold. By the time he manages to kindle a flame out of a small pile of dried sticks and leaves, he finds Pewdie sitting a little away from him by the bank, his back facing him. He had taken off his shoes and socks, rolled up the legs of his pants and dipped both his feet into the cold water.

The begrudging silence that they'd fallen into for the past few hours had naturally brought with it an uneasy tension between them. Cry knows that this can't go on if they are to continue travelling together and anyway, he isn't entirely comfortable with the idea of a brooding Pewdie either. Eventually, they need to start communicating again but that can't happen soon unless one of them becomes brave enough to break the silence.

Rummaging into his backpack, Cry takes out a can of spaghetti and a plastic fork, makes his way to the bank and plops down next to Pewdie, whose shoulders visibly tense in the moonlight. Cry is about to hand the two items he'd taken out to the other man as a sort of peace offering but stops when he notices his appearance for the first time in a few hours.

Pewdie wasn't joking when he emphasized how much he needed rest. He looks _exhausted_ right now. His whole body seems slumped as if held down by a weight on his shoulders, his hair is a wild mess and his eyes, ringed by puffy pouches, stare blankly forward through drooping eyelids. When he moves his head a little, it's done delicately, as if it is a heavy thing to lift. Instantly, Cry feels a pang of regret at his earlier cold dismissal of Pewdie's weary state. How could he do such a thing to his own friend who had saved their lives not once but two times?

"So," Cry begins awkwardly, playing with the can of spaghetti and fork on his lap. "How are you holding up?"

Pewdie gives a mock-thoughtful hum complete with look. "Oh, I'm doing absolutely _great_. Thanks for asking," he says, the sarcasm obvious in his tone and Cry shifts uneasily at the biting tenor in the other's voice.

Geez, Cry thinks as he stares down at the can of spaghetti. I think I've screwed up, big time. How do you make up with someone after doing what you did, however small it is? All I did was get pissed and walk away and it's so stupid of me to do that and now I just feel like the most terrible person because I didn't consider how serious Pewds is about how tired he was. What do I say to make it up to him? What _is_ there to say? 'Sorry I acted like a jackass?' or 'It was wrong of me to do what I did,' or 'I shouldn't have walked away. I shouldn't have left you alone like that.' Or maybe, 'Geez Pewds, if you'd stopped being fucking annoying for the past few days, then I wouldn't have lost my patience with you and snapped like that.'

In the end, the words fail him because Cry doesn't know which ones can work so he settles for the next best thing and that is through his actions. He doesn't know if itwill work but he hopes the gesture that he is going to show might convey how much Cry wants them to make up.

So he puts the can and fork onto the ground, pushes himself backwards and shifts sideways so he's sitting behind the other man. Cry lifts up his fists hesitantly, letting them hover over the surface of Pewdie's back before he lowers them and begins to rhythmically pound the other man's shoulder blades.

Pewdie instantly reels back in surprise and twists around to stare at him. "What the hell are you doing?" he almost shrieks in bewilderment.

Cry feels himself flushing under Pewdie's gaze and holds up his fists sheepishly. "I'm…" he says tentatively because he knows how awkward this looks to the both of them but he can't think of anything else he can do. "I'm actually giving you a massage."

When Pewdie doesn't move, he adds weakly, "I mean, you _are _hurting now, right?"

He sees Pewdie's eyebrow give an upwards twitch. "A _massage_?" Pewdie says in disbelief yet Cry thinks he faintly hears a note of amusement in his voice. "That doesn't even feel like a massage to me. It just feels like you're punching me in the back. Are you sure you're not punching me in the back? Is this your idea of revenge?"

"I am _not _punching you in the back," Cry says firmly with a frown. "It's obviously a type of massaging technique and you know it."

"Well, it still feels like punching to me," Pewdie remarks and then turns around so his back faces Cry once more. "If you're going to massage my back, then you should do it the right way. Like squeezing the muscles, not punching them."

"I wasn't punching you," Cry protests but Pewdie's invitation for him to continue is surprising and Cry thinks it's another step in the staircase he's climbing that is leading up to their reconciliation. He cups his hands over Pewdie's stiff shoulders and squeezes.

"_Ow_!" Pewdie jerks under his hands and Cry sees the glare he shoots over his shoulder. "Geez, be gentle, will you. When I say squeeze, you squeeze gently. You do it in a circular motion too. And for fuck's sake, do it _properly_."

Look who's the bossy one now, Cry thinks bitterly and tries kneading Pewdie's shoulders gently and halts when Pewdie clicks his tongue and says, "What the hell is that? I can't feel anything. Squeeze a little harder."

"You told me not to squeeze too hard," Cry can't help but whine.

"That's exactly what I said so – _ow!_ Ouch, stop that, that hurts," Pewdie screeches and – gosh, Pewdie's voice, loud and resounding in the night, grates his ears. Cry tolerates it, loosens his grip and squeezes the other's shoulders again. He continues kneading silently, trying to adjust the amount of pressure he puts onto those stiff muscles and when he thinks that he's starting to get the hang of it, Pewdie suddenly pulls away, shrugging Cry's hands off his shoulders and turns his head to look at him.

"You are really bad at this," he comments with a hard, contemplative look and Cry doesn't know what to make of it, whether Pewdie is insulting him or perhaps rejecting his pathetic attempt at reconciliation. Before Cry can provide a comeback with that, Pewdie shifts his whole body so that Cry is facing his side instead of his back. "Look, if you want to massage something, you should just massage my feet. They're the ones that hurt like hell after all," he points out and then lifts one of his legs up from the stream.

As rivulets of water roll off the length of Pewdie's calf, Cry can see his bare foot in the moonlight, sees that the sole is red and sore and the skin of his heel had been rubbed raw. He winces at the sight and Pewdie notices it. A sneering smile stretches across the latter's lips, "That's what you get, Cry, for making me walk without stopping. I told you already how much I needed a minute to rest, didn't I?"

Dammit, Cry feels even more terrible now. He can already imagine the amount of pain Pewdie must have felt every time he puts his foot down when he walks.

"Oh, 'carry on _walking_, Pewds,'" Pewdie says in a deep voice that's supposed to imitate Cry's own. He's watching Cry carefully as he speaks. "'You're so _slow_, Pewds,' you said. 'Don't stop for _nothing_, Pewds.' 'If you don't keep walking, I'm going to leave you _behind_, Pewds.' 'If you don't catch up, you'll get jumped on by a _zombie_, Pewds, and I won't be there to save you–'"

"I didn't even _say_ any of those things," Cry can't help but point out feebly and Pewdie is still looking at him and there's something hidden in his face, in the sneering quality of his smile. It's not bitterness directed towards him, not anymore anyway. It looks more like quiet amusement.

"Oh, but you were _thinking_ it," says Pewdie accusingly but it sounds a little over exaggerated. "I can hear your thoughts from behind you, Cry. Did you know that it's one of my secret talents? You think you know everything about me? Well, you've got another thing coming. Now shut up and massage my feet, you little bitch."

Cry reels back with disgust when Pewdie suddenly thrusts his still soaking wet foot into his face, making a few droplets of water splatter onto the lens of his glasses. He smacks the foot away with the back of his hand by reflex and says, "Fuck no."

"Are you questioning me, boy?" Pewdie demands loudly in one of his deep and gruff dramatic voices as he pushes his foot against the back of Cry's hand. His eyes, Cry finally realises, have a mischievous, impish twinkle in them and damn it, god_damn_ it– Pewdie has been fucking with him all along.

"You _suck_, Pewds," Cry pushes the foot away, much more gently this time while fighting the warmth that is creeping up the sides of his face. He feels ashamed that Pewdie seemed to have caught him off-guard, for leading him on a guilt trip like this.

Pewdie's toes wiggle in the air between them, "I'm waiting, Cry. I want my massage."

"No," says Cry. His stupid cheeks are burning. Once again, he tries to push Pewdie's foot away from his face but meets resistance at the other end.

"No?" Pewdie says loudly in mock-disbelief and wiggles his toes again.

"_No,_" Cry says a little more firmly, and somehow everything is suddenly funny around him. There's a tickling feeling in his stomach, threatening to burst out of his chest but he fights it down and concentrates on pushing Pewdie's stupid foot out of his face.

"What do you mean, 'no'?" Pewdie thunders and begins to push his foot against Cry's resisting hand. "I order you to give me my massage!"

"Get off me, Pewds," Cry says – or rather, he tries to say but his words come out shaky from the effort of trying to control himself. A lone giggle escapes his lips. He is _not _going to laugh. Pewdie's being an asshole and he made him feel stupid and Cry is so not going to forgive him for doing that to him. No fucking way.

"You may be resisting me now," says Pewdie in another one of his voices. He thankfully lowers his foot to the ground only because he's too tired of lifting it up. "But deep down, you know you want to do it. Don't you, Cry? Just admit it. It'll make it easier for the both of us. It might even feel _good_."

_That's so gross_, Cry wants to tell him but he's biting his lip, not daring to speak because he knows if he opens his mouth, he is going to die laughing. He's also trying not to look at Pewdie, who is wiggling his eyebrows at him suggestively. Don't laugh, he says to himself. Don't fucking _laugh_. Don't do it. And why the hell is this happening? Weren't they supposed to be fighting? Weren't they supposed to be pissed with each other? Wasn't this supposed to be about how Cry became a heartless bitch and didn't care about Pewdie's wellbeing? Why has it suddenly turned into a game of 'how long can Pewdie keep this up until Cry bursts out laughing?'

"I can see you want to say 'no'," Pewdie says dramatically again, his voice lowering into a seductive whisper. "But we both know what you're really saying is 'yes, Pewdie. I would _love_ to massage your feet.'"

It's over. His control over himself breaks – and Cry positively _howls_ with laughter. This isn't like the eruption of breathy, ticklish giggles that he's widely known for, or the manly chuckles when something tickles his fancy or even his often sinister-sounding cackles when he's feeling awfully gleeful. These are deep bellows of laughter which have emerged from within his chest and they are hard enough to push the air out of his lungs, hard enough to leave him breathless, hard enough to make him clutch his stomach, make him fall onto the grass, make his eyes sting with tears, his face hurt from the strain.

And Pewdie, the smug bastard, is grinning widely down at him and Cry just hates his face right now so he reaches for the nearest thing – the can of spaghetti – and hurls it at Pewdie, who yelps and expertly dodges out of its way. They hear the can plop into the stream with a hollow splash.

"What the fuck was that for?" Pewdie screeches. He doesn't look angry – not that Cry would give a fuck if he does – because he's still grinning down at him, at Cry who is breathless with laughter and dying on the grass right now.

"Shut – up –" Cry tries to say and why is it so fucking hard to speak right now. Why is–

"Why – are you _laughing_ –?" he manages to gasp out between breaths and this is so important right now because he doesn't understand why Pewdie is laughing as well and this is getting dangerous because Pewdie laughs like a fucking donkey and it's the most fucking hilarious thing in the world _ever_ and–

Oh no. He can't breathe, can't catch his own breath. Black spots are beginning to form in front of his eyes. He needs to stop. Pewdie, stop fucking laughing because Cry can't stop and why the hell is everything so funny right now and if Pewdie manages to kill him from making him laugh to death, Cry _swears _he will rise from the dead and _eat_ him on the spot.

Eventually, Cry manages to bury his face into the grass and force himself to stop and catch his breath, counting from one until ten, twenty, thirty, fifty – and wow, he feels so _exhausted _and everything sort of hurts right now. The exhilaration from the laughing fit still courses through his body but his energy is spent now and he lies there on the grass, feeling the rough stalks scratch his face, feels the cold breeze on his cheek, hears the stream sing a watery chorus a little away from where he is lying.

When he thinks he's fully calmed down, he slowly sits up and wipes his face, his teary eyes, and after adjusting his glasses, sees Pewdie calmly sitting in front of him, his cheeks flushed pink and he, too, is breathing deeply, trying to regain his breath. He's gazing at Cry and there's something of a smile on his face and Cry's not even aware that his mouth is quirking upwards to return to Pewdie that same smile.

They end up just looking at each other for a while and Cry can't believe that several minutes ago, they were sort-of fighting, were annoyed and pissed with one another because Pewdie had been an annoying bitch and Cry had been an ignorant, heartless jackass. He can't believe that they ended up settling their differences all because he had failed to give Pewdie a back massage.

When he recalls back to the series of events which have led to their reconciliation, it occurs to him that Pewdie may have already forgiven him the moment Cry asked for his wellbeing. Maybe Pewdie had already intended on forgiving him a long time ago. Maybe he'd been waiting for Cry to make the first move. Maybe Pewdie isn't such a bad guy after all. Maybe Cry underestimated him. Maybe what Pewdie needs right now, what he deserves the most right now, is Cry's apology.

So Cry does the right thing and gives it to him.

"I'm sorry," he says regretfully. "I'm sorry I acted like a dick to you."

Pewdie beams at his words and after a while, he remarks, "Yeah, you _were _a bit of a dick. And I'm sorry I was a whiny bitch." Cry is a little taken aback at the words but decides that it's enough for him. It's enough for him to accept them because he's knows Pewdie well enough to understand what he means. A sense of relief settles in his chest and he feels good and warm and generous enough to motion towards Pewdie's bare feet and ask, "Do you still want me to massage those for you?"

Pewdie blinks and looks down at his feet, which still appear sore and a little swollen at the end of his stretched-out legs, before he looks back up at Cry, lightly shaking his head. "Are you kidding?" he scoffs, swinging his body around and dipping both feet back into the stream. "Dude, you're bad at this thing, remember? You might end up making it worse. I'm fine with putting my feet in the water though. But thanks for the offer anyway."

It's said light-hearted enough that the words aren't intended to be offensive so Cry finds he isn't affected by them. Before he can reply to this, Pewdie adds, "Why don't you put your feet in too? The water feels nice. Go _on_, put them in."

"Alright, alright," says Cry, edging closer to the stream. After he pulls off his shoes and socks, he lowers his feet into the water but when his toes touch the surface, he jerks them back up.

"Yikes, it's _cold_!" he exclaims. "How can you stand that?"

"Don't be such a crybaby, Cry," says Pewdie smoothly. "Just stick your feet in."

Cry does, and after he feels a shiver run through his body when he lets the water level stop at his ankles, he finds that Pewdie is right, that the water feels nice on his feet and he curls his toes at the pleasant sensation of the stream's current caressing his skin. He sighs in relief and settles back on the heels of his hands, looking up at the bright moon in the sky. It's silent and peaceful here, with the soft crackling of the fire behind them, the quiet singing of the stream before them and Pewdie's presence next to him, solid and real and warm.

This serene atmosphere is enough to give Cry the courage to say what he should have said many days ago, the moment Pewdie pulled him out of their wrecked car. "Thank you," he says timidly, glancing over at Pewdie. "For saving my life."

There is a pause as Pewdie stares at him with an indescribable look on his face. Then he abruptly looks away and Cry is sure he can see the flush of red that's quickly blooming across the other's cheeks. He feels a little embarrassed when he realises he's rather flattered by Pewdie's reaction. He's just about to turn away himself when Pewdie stretches his arm out towards him and offers him his closed fist. Cry stares at it, astonished.

Usually their fist bumps, or 'brofists' as Pewdie calls them, are a gesture of celebration for their victories whenever they managed to get a good find from a raid or escaped the attentions of a zombie. Now, the fist bump that Pewdie presents him at the moment conveys a new subtle meaning. It's a new gesture of reconciliation and acceptance – a gesture which tells them that things are okay between them. And here, Pewdie is affirming that message with him now.

So Cry reaches across and bumps his fist against Pewdie's with a smile; silently tells him that yes, everything is forgiven and they're both going to okay.

* * *

_So, like, I made them fight. Sort of._

_Hoho, this is merely the beginning, boys._

_Feedback, reviews, whatever, are always appreciated. (Phew, guys. How do you feel after reading all 10+K words of that?)  
_


	6. Chapter 6

Fancy a walk in the woods?

Don't let the trees get to you in the end.

* * *

**06.**

"I got it," Pewdie says suddenly. "If we want to get anywhere, we should just stick to the stream and follow it. It'll lead us to a river and then eventually, we might end up reaching a town or something. Some towns are built around rivers after all."

"Sounds like a good plan," Cry comments brightly. It's more than a good plan, it's a good idea, a much better one than just wandering around wild and woody terrain, and he instantly agrees to it so they set off at first light the next morning.

For the next two days, they travel downstream, picking their way through moist vegetation and slippery pebbles, and Cry makes sure they stop every few hours if he happens to glance back and notice when Pewdie starts looking tired or when the other man informs him he needs a break. He also adjusts their night time routine so that instead of catching snatches of sleep every few hours in between their hiking, they stay put in one place for the entire evening. It means that Cry lets Pewdie rest for as long as he wants while he keeps watch over them both. He also examines the CB radio they brought with them in order to pass the time.

However, on the second night of this new nightly routine, Pewdie points to the ground and says, "Go to sleep, Cry."

Cry knows he's sleep deprived because he's seen how he vaguely looks like judging by his reflection on the rippling water, how physically tired he appears with his eyes ringed with dark shadows. He knows he's becoming clumsy since he keeps slipping over the rocks they walk on and the fact that he feels as if he's on the brink of getting a cold. But he's used to this state when he was travelling alone back in the weeks before he met Pewdie. He's so used to being on guard all the time, whether night or day, that it became second nature to him.

"Pewds," he says, not really sure where to begin to explain. He needs to keep guard while they rest. Although the full moon has waned in the sky, there's still enough moonlight to see the surrounding area, to see if the shrubs or grass stalks shake with activity, to see whether something or someone could be heading towards their direction and they needed to bolt from the spot.

"Cry," Pewdie says again, much more firmly this time and with an emphatic tilt of his head. He motions towards the ground again and then to their backpacks, which are what they would use as makeshift pillows. "Don't worry about it. I'll keep watch this time. You go to sleep."

He tries to that night, he really does, but the night seems so loud in his ears – the sound of the water flowing down the stream, the rustling of leaves in the wind, the distant hooting of some animal. It's easy to keep his eyes closed and try to drift off into nothingness but some instinct in his body keeps pulling him back into consciousness.

Pewdie notices his restlessness and intervenes by berating him, "What the hell are you still awake for? Stop thinking, Cry. Don't think about anything and just go to sleep. What? Do you want me to read you a story too? Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess called Cry and she was kidnapped by a zombie dragon and had to be saved by a knight in shining armour who rides a fabulous rainbow duck–"

Funnily enough, even when Cry tells Pewdie to stop because laughing won't help him sleep, the latter just ignores him and continues on and Cry finds himself drifting off into unconsciousness to Pewdie's voice anyway. The next time he wakes up, shivering under his blanket, it's dawn and despite feeling a little tired, he feels a whole lot better, a lot more alert than the day before and when he sits up, he finds Pewdie dozing on his own backpack, wrapped like a cocoon in his own blanket, his flashlight on his chest and the rumpled, torn road map on the ground next to him.

"Did you find out where we are from the map?" Cry asks him about an hour later, when they sit by the bank and share a can of Spam between each other. They're slowly running out of food so they have to resort to sharing their rations when they can.

Pewdie looks embarrassed at being asked that question and he sheepishly pushes his hair away from his face. "Um, no, not really," he admits. "The map doesn't tell you much. I really have no idea where we are or where we…you know, crashed."

It's one of the rare times that Pewdie makes a brief reference to the car crash. Cry instantly notices this in Pewdie's conversations, the fact that the other man doesn't once mention the crash or the events which led to it. Even when he does, he doesn't stay on the topic very long. He also stops talking about anything that's related to either of their past lives. It's almost as if Pewdie is purposely avoiding the subjects altogether and it's one of the things Cry feels a little grateful to him for, even when he isn't sure what the reason behind it could be. He isn't complaining though – he still feels damn guilty for crashing their car – but if Pewdie doesn't want to bring it up, then Cry won't as well.

The topic of the car crash aside, Cry also wants to ask what Pewdie had been doing last night while he kept watch with his flashlight and map. Except he stops himself when he suddenly guesses what it is. Had Pewdie been _talking_ to those two items while Cry slept? Cry thought he stopped doing that weeks ago but the evidence right now points to the possibility that it is the case. Either way, he's happy to forget about asking because it's really none of his business so he finishes up the last scrap of their Spam – earning him a disapproving squawk from Pewdie – and reaches for his shovel, intending to bury the can into the ground.

They keep moving ahead, following the course of the stream until they reach a mossy, rocky slope which slants downwards. They then discover that their stream eventually merges with another channel of water which falls off a little, rocky drop that leads, at last, into a river.

"Made it," says Pewdie victoriously. He's sweating from the exertion of climbing down the rocks next to the waterfall. At one point when they descend this slope, Cry's cap is knocked off by the protruding branch of a shrub but thankfully floats onto the bank of the river and startles a bird that is stalking for bugs amongst the vegetation. Pewdie reaches down and retrieves the cap, plopping it back onto Cry's head and his hand accidentally knocks Cry's glasses askew.

"I guess we'll keep moving from here," Cry says after adjusting his glasses. "It looks like a downhill trail. We need to watch where we walk."

About a day later, the river they are following expands when they discover that another stream had slithered down a different slope and joined with it. The slope they are hiking down begins to grow steeper, making the water in the river beside them flow faster, until they reach a point where they are forced to rest every half an hour because of the amount of energy they had put in trying not to slip and fall. Cry begins to hate this riverside route they're on but he forces himself to endure it. He knows that Pewdie hates it too because, despite having apologised for it before, the other man has started whining again.

"This is so _hard_," Pewdie points out, carefully balancing on a rock. "Geez, I feel like I'm going to fall any time soon."

"Cry, don't go too fast. Don't leave me hanging here like this."

"Stupid fucking rocks. It's so unstable here. I can't find any place to put my feet. God, I'm going to fall."

"_Fuckity fu_– ohh, that was so fucking close…"

"Uhhh… ohh, I don't wanna do this. Maybe we should hold hands. Then we can catch each other if one of us slips."

"Cry, Cry. I think I'm going to fall. Save me, Cry."

"Pewds, just watch your _feet_," Cry tells him through gritted teeth. On top of this unpleasant descent, he can't put all his concentration on where he's putting his feet. What he wants right now is some silence except it doesn't look like Pewdie is going to give him that privilege anytime soon. Irritated, he fights back the urge to throw something at Pewdie to get him to shut up but there isn't anything small enough around him to let him do that so he merely shuts Pewdie's voice out of his head and continues his descent.

Thankfully, the land begins to even out by the time noon rolls in so after an hour of rest, they are able to pick up their pace again. However, the trail they are trudging through soon becomes curtained by trees so dense that their thick trunks loom over them like giants, their canopies blocking out most of the sunlight, throwing them in shadows. Apart from the gurgle of running river water alongside them and the occasional rustling of leaves, there is almost no sound in this place.

They begin to find themselves creeping through these woods instead of walking, feeling small and insignificant, and Cry can't help shake the feeling that something is watching them, following them. It's stupid, he thinks as he clutches his shovel in his hands for reassurance, to be afraid of walking through this vast place surrounded by trees when there are other dangers outside it. However, he can't help but compare this environment and its sinister atmosphere to the woods in _Slender Man_.

Pewdie, of course, isn't making this situation any easier. Although Cry is grateful that he isn't alone, Pewdie's nervous rambling and his easily startled disposition are making him increasingly agitated and on edge. Every sudden noise they hear – the crack of a twig being stepped on, the rustling of the leaves above them, a sharp splash as something hits in the water – makes them jump and spin around in alarm.

"_Ahhh_–!" Pewdie screeches behind him and the sudden sound cuts into the thick compressed silence of the wood and for the umpteenth time, Cry jumps, his heart pounding hard in his chest, and sharply turns to see Pewdie cowering away from a gnarly branch he had just walked into. Immediately, Cry feels incredibly angry at being startled like that because this is doing _shit_ to his nerves and – goddamn it, I need to hold myself back from bashing Pewdie in the head with the shovel because he needs to fucking _stop_. _Please._

"Fucking branch," Pewdie berates, oblivious to Cry's agitated nature right now as he lightly hits the woody limb with his crowbar. "Stop creeping up on me like that! You like that? That's me hitting you. _Geez_, I really don't like this, Cry. How long 'till we get out of this place?"

"I don't fucking _know_," says Cry, unable to keep the snappish quality out of his voice. He feels like a coiled spring right now, ready to be released at any time and god, he's just getting tired of everything, of the easily scared Pewdie, of being so tensed and on edge and then jumping at every sound like this. He hates these woods, hates them so much. All he wants to do is to get out and _burn_ it all down.

By the time sunset arrives, it's so dark that they don't dare move another step further, even with the help of their flashlights. They're already exhausted from startling so much that they don't care that they make a bonfire in the middle of the woods and sit around it, their weapons clutched tightly in their hands. They wait for rest to settle in their minds and bodies, except it doesn't happen that way in this place.

If daylight in the woods was unsettling, night time in the woods becomes downright _terrifying_.

The orange-red glow of the fire becomes their only source of light and warmth and it's surrounded by the dark skeletal shapes of nearby trees that seem to have come alive in the night. Beyond that, a vast void of blackness lies where the rest of the wood used to be. Wavering shapes and shadows cast by the gnarly trees dance in the fire light every time a cold breeze creeps through the air. The noises which have been absent in the daytime seemed to have returned at night, sounding louder than ever in the dark – strange noises unlike those of animal calls which send chills and icy spikes of fear down their spines. What results from this is Cry and Pewdie huddling together, bodies stiff with tension and ears pricked as they keep a watchful eye on the darkness beyond the fire's light.

"What's out there, Cry?" Pewdie can't help but say, although his voice comes out as a nervous whisper. Apart from the crowbar that's lying across his lap, he's clutching his flashlight, holding it up like a weapon instead, his finger ready on the switch to illuminate the darkness.

"I-I'd rather not know though," Cry murmurs shakily beside him, unconsciously rubbing the goosebumps which have popped up all over the skin of his wrist.

A sudden noise that sounds like a garbled cackle pierces the stillness from somewhere in the partly visible trees and Cry startles, stifles a gasp in his mouth and senses Pewdie leaning closer to him in alarm. Petrified by the sound, they both stare in terror at the blackness in front of them, expecting to see something manifest before their eyes. There is a tense few seconds as they wait for something to happen but nothing comes at them. At least nothing yet.

Then Pewdie suddenly pushes him away and stumbles onto his feet, shakily muttering, "Right, I'm getting the fuck out of here." And Cry automatically reaches up and grabs onto his wrist in an iron grip, tugging him back down.

"_Stay put_," he instructs firmly and he's terrified to find that he can't raise his voice higher than a whisper. "_Don't run. Don't run into the woods. Stay in the light. You'll get lost. Just stay _put."

"You're crazy," Pewdie lowers his own voice into a hiss but he does settle back down next to him. "We don't know what's – whatever that thing is. What if it comes here and gets us?"

"_Don't run_," Cry says again and he's actually screaming it in a whisper. In reality, he feels the strong impulse to bolt from the spot like Pewdie does too but where is there to run into except into that darkness?

"This is like the fucking Blair Witch Project," Pewdie whispers and god_damn_ it, Pewds, god-fucking-_damn_ it– that is the worst fucking thing to say ever because Cry's distress level just skyrocketed and now he's trying very hard not to stand up and run away. This is worse than any horror game he'd played in the past. He was fine before, at least a little bit fine because it was easy to pretend that it was the light playing tricks on them and also these woods are just so fucking spooky, but now when he stares into the darkness, he knows that the darkness is staring back at him with a gazillion unseen eyes. He knows that the darkness is playing games with them, trying to scare them to the point where they run straight into its cold, black embrace.

He can feel Pewdie shaking in fear beside him – or it might be Cry who is shaking – and he tells himself that he should calm the fuck down and don't run, just stay put and don't run because there's nothing out there even though every instinct in his body screams at him that there _is, _there is _something_ out there and it's waiting and it will come for them when they least expect it. Cry forces himself to breathe slowly; to count to ten, thirty, fifty, a hundred. He forces himself to ignore the watching darkness and the noises and his own paranoia which are slowly trying to break him down.

He and Pewdie don't sleep at all that night.

When dawn approaches, they immediately set off and they're both silent and stiff, weary and bad-tempered. Cry doesn't care if Pewdie gets left behind because he's intent on getting the hell out of here. He half-expects Pewdie to call out and whine at him again – and Cry is prepared to snap at him if that were to happen – but he doesn't. The other man is trudging in silence behind him as usual, his face haggard and mouth quirked downwards into a sulk. He looks too worn-out to speak but there's a determination in his stride that tells Cry that Pewdie wants to get out of here as much as he does.

Finally, they reach a point in the woods where the trees begin to thin and they're able to see the sky again. Once sunlight touches them, that's when Pewdie throws down his backpack, lies down on the ground with his back facing him and grumbly announces, "I am going to fucking sleep right here and you're not going to stop me, Cry."

Cry doesn't argue against this because he's too tired to do so and he really doesn't give a fuck anymore, so he props his own backpack against a rock and settles down to fall asleep himself. For once, he doesn't care whether they get attacked by wild animals or zombies or child-killing witches who happen to be wandering about the area.

One afternoon later, when their moods have improved and they're walking at a leisurely pace, Cry looks into the river and sees a small mass of shadowed forms dart past a cluster of rocks in the flowing water. He reaches out to grab Pewdie's arm.

"What is it?" Pewdie asks next to him and follows the direction of his gaze. They stare longer at the water and once the sunlight hits the ripples, the shadow forms turn out to be a school of fish.

He and Pewdie exchange silent, knowing looks. Then Pewdie says, "I'll go get some sharp sticks."

"You have a _crowbar_," Cry points out with a raised eyebrow.

"Not as fun as using a stick," Pewdie says with a grin. He turns towards the trees and begins hunting for a stick long and sharp enough to use for fishing. Once they procure two reasonable sticks, they roll up their pant legs and wade into the river and lie in wait.

Pewdie, of course, doesn't really do quiet and patient. Cry doesn't know whether to laugh at his unnecessary commentary or tell him to shut the fuck up and fish.

"I'm gonna get you, fishies," Pewdie murmurs in one of his dramatic voices, his sharp stick held high above him. "Come closer to me. _That's _it. I have something to show you– _Hah! _Got you– eh, no? No, I was so close! No, _no_. Stop moving! Get over here. Where are you going – oh, no don't go away." His voice suddenly changes into a pleading, guttural wheeze, "I, I didn't mean it. I'm sorry. Come back, fishies. We'll be friends. Fish! Fishies! Noooo!"

Almost an hour later, they haven't caught a single thing apart from Cry almost skewering his own foot by mistake when a fish swims too close to him. Just as he thinks he might need to find a better stick, Pewdie lets out a howl of frustration, splashing water into the air, staining the entirety of his faded red T-shirt, and wails, "I am so fucking _done_!" before he stabs his stick into the riverbed in anger.

About a second later, his face changes and then he's whooping with laughter.

"Cry!" he yells excitedly, tugging his stick free and lifts it out of the water. There, skewered into the sharp end is a fat fish, its tail flailing wildly in the air and showering droplets of water all over them.

"Holy shit," Cry says in amazement, hardly believing what he's seeing.

"That's how I _roll_!" Pewdie hollers after whooping in victory and waves his catch above his head. He lets his fist fly through the air so that Cry can catch it with his own in a fist bump. "Quick, Cry. Let's go build a fire."

They share their only fish together, bury the bones on Cry's insistence and set off in a good mood, much better than in the last few days, on account of their victory in catching their own lunch. They break into lighthearted banter about who can catch the most fish next time and Cry thinks they need to do this more often, working together to get their meals in the wild, because it puts them in a good mood and a good mood is what they need now after their experience in the thick, sinister woods a day before. He thinks, we can do this. We can survive like this. We'll be okay.

It's a simple life living in the wild from then on. The concept of time doesn't matter here because every day is the same to them. They get up when it's light and walk by the riverside, watching the sun climb up and down the sky, and when it's dark, they go to sleep. Cry almost feels tempted to stay in this woodland terrain by the riverside and avoid human habitation altogether. It's a much more peaceful life compared to running away from zombies and anyway, he and Pewdie have been doing well so far after all.

One morning a few days later, while they sit down by the bank, quietly finishing off the last scraps of their fish over the diminishing fire, a deer walks past them and lowers its head to drink water from the river. Cry and Pewdie both freeze at the sight, not daring to breathe, and just stare in fascination at the animal, who didn't seem to have noticed their presence. Once it finishes, it lifts its head, its ears flicking, before it turns and sees them.

As Cry stares into the creature's eyes, thoughts begin to buzz in his head. It's bizarre, he realises with a start, it's bizarre that the human world right now lies in chaos and disorder while here in the wild, nothing seems to have changed and life continues on peacefully. Walking through this woodland world feels like walking through limbo, separated from the harsh, horrible reality that's outside it. Yet, they're not exactly living while they're here, nor are they even surviving either. Instead, it all feels as if they're just escaping from what they're supposed to be doing.

He sees the deer's nose twitch before it turns and trots off, eventually disappearing into the trees. Finally, he and Pewdie both relax and breathe. The remains of their fish lie forgotten in their hands.

"That was weird," says Pewdie, glancing over to where the deer had vanished. "But that was also amazing."

It certainly was, yet Cry thinks he's gained something else from this encounter. He's suddenly reminded of his own philosophy that he lived by in the first three weeks of this zombie hell: that he should never stay put and hide away for too long. What they need to do is to get out – out of this wilderness and out of this zombie land – and find help. He can feel the CB radio in his bag weighing him down, reminding him that they're still on a quest. They still need to complete their search for batteries so that they can call for help, so they can be saved.

"We should keep moving," Cry tells him seriously, suddenly business-like as he straightens up and tosses the bones into the flowing river instead of burying them like they usually do. "We've got to hit a town or somewhere sooner or later. Come on."

They spend a gruelling few days continuing their hike alongside the riverside. Pewdie fills the silence with his chatter while they walk and it isn't so bad at first because Cry knows he needs to talk and laugh once in a while. However, as time goes by and every day they see more river and more trees, Cry finds himself just craving for silence.

"Do you think if zombies wander in here, they'll eat all the wildlife too?" Pewdie chit-chats behind him. "Oh, imagine how it'll look like if a grizzly bear and a zombie had a showdown. I wonder who'd win? I say the grizzly anytime. What about you, Cry?"

When Cry doesn't answer, he feels the end of Pewdie's crowbar gently tap him on the shoulder. "Oh," he says absent-mindedly. "Maybe the zombie?"

"The zombie?" Pewdie snorts in disbelief. "You mean a 6-foot zombie struggling against a 10-foot grizzly and you say the zombie will win? Do you even hear yourself?" When Cry doesn't answer again, he asks a little concernedly, "Are you okay, man? Maybe you should take a break. It'll do you good. Maybe we could fish. Do you want to fish? I can still catch more than you–"

"Pewds," says Cry exasperatedly, holding himself back from snapping because he doesn't want to offend the other. "I'm fine, okay? Can you just–" he pauses because he can't just tell Pewdie to stop talking because sometimes the other man can't help chattering on like this. "Let's just keep moving, alright?"

It's exasperating sometimes to only have Pewdie for company, to only have him to talk to, to put up with his constant whining and noise. It's not that he's slowly hating the other's company because he's grateful not to be alone in this. But there are just some days when he's tired of the same face, of the same voice, and all he wants is to stay away from him.

There's also the question of their walking pace because Pewdie just lags behind him, taking frequent breaks in between their hiking, and Cry thinks they're just going too slow. He really wants to get somewhere with this riverside trail and if they keep moving at this speed, they might still be here for days, _weeks_. Cry thinks he could go crazy if they don't see a town soon.

It's these things that make Cry compare Pewdie to a form of heavy baggage that he's lugging behind him. Oftentimes, he has a wild urge to leave the other man on a rock somewhere just because he is just too _slow _and too _noisy_.

At long last, after another few days of travelling with Pewdie chattering nonstop like a noisy bird and Cry occasionally joining in or sliding back into glum silence, the river leads them out of the woodland into open grassy, hilly ground. Cry stops at the peak of one of these hills and breathes a long sigh of relief. _Finally_, he thinks, open ground, open sky, grass and wind and sunshine. It feels like he had just emerged from a dark maze he got lost in, like he had just woken up from a dream he slept too long in. It's a sensational feeling to finally reach somewhere different and he silently rejoices at the change of scenery because he's sick and tired of seeing fucking trees every day. Beside him, Pewdie whoops in victory and does a strange little dance in celebration of it before he falls back onto the grass and sighs.

"Roll with me, Cry," he says invitingly and begins rolling. "Roll with me like we did in _Day-Z_."

Cry doesn't feel like rolling when he lies back on the grass, staring up at open sky. He doesn't feel like dealing with Pewdie right now after feeling like he'd been lugging him around for days to reach this open sunlight. He murmurs out, "Keep a lookout for me, will you?" to Pewdie and by the time Pewdie sits up to ask what he just said, Cry had turned away from him and is already drifting off to sleep.

* * *

Some days, there are times when Pewdie can't stand the outdoors, when he gets sick of being under the sun all the time or when he sits down to rest and pulls off his shoes to find grass and dirt residue inside. He knows he's not used to living in the wild like this, knows he can't do anything about it, knows he needs to get used to it if he wants to get anywhere, but sometimes he cannot help but _whine_ about it. He can't help but say how much he doesn't enjoy it, this constant moving on and on and resting without a roof over their heads. He craves for the cosy interior of his car, for the cool air-conditioning and the bad music flowing out of the speakers. He craves for the feel of the steering wheel under his fingers, the pedal under his foot, the open road in his sight. God, he _misses_ it a lot.

But he doesn't want to blame Cry for making them lose the car. He doesn't want to mention it at all and lets any reference he makes about Bluey slide into nothingness. He's also very careful not to talk about anything related to their past lives because they both know that it's a touchy, dangerous subject for Cry. Besides, he knows it's also partially his fault that Cry was pressured to the point where he couldn't see where he was driving. So no, Pewdie doesn't want to make Cry feel guilty for crashing the car. He senses that Cry seemed to have picked up his reluctance to bring the topic up because the other man doesn't mention it too and in the end, they both treat it as something unspeakable between them.

The only time when Pewdie does sort of bring it up and talk about it openly is at night when it's his turn to keep a lookout and only when he makes sure that Cry is fast asleep. That's when he takes out both Torchy and Map – GPS was missing in the wrecked car so he couldn't save it – and after making sure that Cry is unconscious, begins to speak to them only about the topics that he doesn't want the other to listen in on. It's just like the first few days of his and Cry's reunion when Pewdie expresses his thoughts and concerns to GPS and Map in the car.

"He's been acting so out of it these days," Pewdie whispers, absent-mindedly flicking Torchy's switch on and off and throwing his face into light and darkness while Map lies on his lap and listens. "And it's like he won't talk to me anymore. I even try to make him laugh but he doesn't give a crap to anything I say. I know I'm being a whiny bitch again but at least I don't complain as much. I only joke around, like we always do when we're playing co-op games, because it's so quiet and _boring _just walking straight on next to the river, right?"

"Maybe he's just tired of listening to you, Pewdie," Torchy tells him timidly. "You should probably give him a break."

"How can he get tired of _me_?" Pewdie says in disbelief. "I'm awesome to be with."

"Maybe he's getting tired of you because you're becoming boring," Map points out in a matter-of-factly tone, like it always does. "He's restless, like you are. Just walking along a river and seeing nothing around for miles. No matter how far you go, it looks like you're going around in circles and you're getting nowhere. Maybe you'll end up dying from starvation before you reach town. Imagine that: being lost out here with no help at all. It's almost as bad as running away from zombies."

"Geez, are you trying to make this worse than what it already is?" Pewdie yelps, feeling the spike of fear creep into his bones at the thought. "You're supposed to tell me something positive to keep me going, you know."

"No, I'm supposed to give you a reality check once in a while," Map reminds him nonchalantly. "It's the only way to get you to think about anything seriously. Cry seems to be on that mind-set right now. Maybe that's why he seems so 'no-nonsense' these days. Maybe it's about time _you_ were too."

Pewdie leans back against the fell tree they've camped around and looks up at the sky, at the millions of stars twinkling in the vast black blanket of space and sighs exasperatedly.

"I dunno," he admits in a murmur, trying to sound reasonable. "I can't help being like this. I don't do silence that well, especially if you're stuck in the woods or climbing up hills and there's no one around. I need to say and laugh at something. I mean, if_ I_ keep being serious all the time, thinking too much about death and staying alive, I don't think I can handle it. I don't think I'd be able to recognise myself anymore. And then there's Cry. I really don't know what's going on with him. I _want_ to ask him but I don't know if he'll tell me. What if he shuts me out again like the last time? I thought I could be the one to lighten things up for him but it seems he keeps turning away if I do." Map's pages flutter a little in the night breeze and Pewdie imagines it dismissing his words.

"One day you'll have to wake up," says Map a little wisely. "One day you'll have to take all this seriously again. You and Cry only have each other after all. Try not to let bad blood boil between you two when the time comes."

Pewdie senses the truth in Map's words, how crucial it is that he and Cry need to get along because he knows it's the best way for the both of them to survive, so he decides to suck it up and take the first step to clear this uneasy air between them. When Cry wakes up the next morning and splashes water onto his face, Pewdie is already cooking their fishy breakfast for them. Once he hands over a portion to Cry, he sits down beside him and says, "Listen. I just want to say sorry, man. If I've been, you know, really annoying these past few days."

Cry looks taken aback by his apology as he stares at him through a mouthful of fish. Pewdie can see the conflict of emotions flashing across his face. Then Cry swallows before looking away, lowering his meal onto his lap and appearing a little guilty.

"I'm–" he begins hoarsely and his eyebrows knit together into a frown. "I guess I've been acting like an asshole to you too. I don't know why. I think it might've been the trees. The trees were getting to me. I'm sorry as well." He sounds apologetic and sincere enough for him so Pewdie accepts it all.

"So we're good, right?" Pewdie asks brightly and accompanies this with a raised fist. He's grateful and relieved when Cry smiles and bumps the fist with his own. There is no need for any more words. Their fist bump becomes enough to reassure him that no grudges are being held and all is well between them again.

When they set off to walk once more, the atmosphere between them becomes lighter and much more relaxed and this time, Cry begins to entertain Pewdie's words again, sometimes speaking in a casual tone, sometimes a teasing one, and occasionally a serious one. Pewdie thinks, we'll be okay. We're awesome. We'll be okay as long as we stick together and get along.

However, this good air doesn't stay with them very long. While hiking together, Pewdie begins noticing how restless Cry seems to be in the next few hours, days– he doesn't really know anymore. He picks it up from the way Cry strides forward on their trail with purpose, as if he's in a hurry to get somewhere again, or the way he quickly packs everything up into his bag and is ready to go after they camp for the night. He's also started humming and muttering songs to himself and doesn't seem to care if Pewdie joins in or not. The only time when he doesn't seem that fidgety is when they're fishing. That's when Cry is in his element, staying absolutely still in the water and he's brimming with energy, tense as a spring coil and ready to strike when a fish comes near him.

Soon, Pewdie begins to learn that there are just some things he can't do in Cry's presence without setting the latter off. Perhaps it was what Cry had said – maybe it was the trees that were getting to him, or the grassy hills around them, or the riverside they are walking along. Maybe it's the boredom and inactivity in this wilderness. Maybe it's the fact that they don't do anything but walk and walk and _walk. _Maybe _that_ is what's putting Cry on edge.

And Pewdie discovers all this when he makes the mistake of jokily mentioning the possibility of a zombie hiding behind the hedge they're looking at and foolishly goes to check it out. That's when he feels Cry's hand roughly pulling him back by the hem of his shirt and hears his reprimanding voice in his ear.

"The _hell_ are you doing?" Cry scolds sharply, frowning disapprovingly at him. "It's okay to joke about things but don't go so far that you do stupid things like that. If you think that that's a hiding place for a zombie or something else, for fuck's sake, don't go near it."

Pewdie knows Cry is serious judging by the hardness in his eyes. But he's also very annoyed at being told off like a child by Cry of all people. He lightly slaps the other's hand off his shirt and mutters, "Okay, okay, _mother_."

The word – _that _word slips out of his lips by mistake and Pewdie silently berates himself for his carelessness because he's been doing so well, he's been careful with what he says so far. Panicking slightly, he quickly glances at Cry and catches the twitch in the other's eyebrow, a flash of something raw and hurtful in his eyes but it's gone when Cry turns his head a little and the sunrays reflect the lens off his glasses, hiding his gaze.

Pewdie recognises the dangerous tension in the air between them brought about by Cry's harsh reprimand and his own careless comeback, and decides to quickly diminish it by acting on the first idea that comes to him. He leans down to grab a rock off the ground and hurls it at the hedge in question. Cry's eyes widen in alarm but he's too shocked by Pewdie's unexpected actions to speak. They watch as the rock sails into the air and buries itself into the body of the wild hedge, the impact of the collision making its green foliage shake slightly. Nothing happens.

There's a stretch of silence between them before Cry is the first one to speak and his voice is light and absent of its chiding note, "I think you've given us a solution there. It looks like there's no zombie behind that hedge."

"Heheh, what can I say," says Pewdie breezily, picking up on Cry's now calmed-down nature. "I'm a _genius_." He lightly knocks Cry's hand that's hanging by his side with his knuckles in what is supposed to be a very subtle form of a fist bump, and manages to catch Cry's look of surprise at the gesture. Grinning, he then turns and resumes walking. Unbeknownst to the other, he secretly breathes a sigh of relief at his quick thinking.

_That was close,_ Map tells him telepathically from where it perches in the inner pocket of his jacket. _Who knows what would've happened if you didn't stop it from getting any worse. He could've shut himself off and not talk to you anymore._

This is stupid, Pewdie thinks to himself, uncertain on whether to be angry or sad at what had become of his and Cry's relationship now. They're supposed to be friends, alright, they're a team and they're supposed to be awesome together. He just doesn't understand why they're no longer that good with each other anymore, why they're not getting along as well as they did before. He just doesn't understand why he has to start tip-toeing around Cry, who has suddenly become a touchy bitch, just so Pewdie doesn't upset him and disturb that equilibrium between them.

Except that if this is what it takes to keep them good, then Pewdie will have to endure it. He'll have to wait until they're at a better place, when they reach a town or somewhere or when Cry is in a better mood, if he wants to confront him. One way or another, they'll have to communicate with each other properly again.

Time passes and Pewdie doesn't know how long it's been since they've emerged from the trees, since the spooky woods, since they've lost Bluey, but one morning when the dawn mist begins to dissipate the higher the sun ascends in the sky, they go down another grassy slope and Cry stops in mid-descent to stare at something in the distance. When he doesn't move for almost a minute, Pewdie steps up next to him and peers through the thinning mist. He's able to see things at a longer distance much better than Cry so he easily spots whatever it is that the other is looking at.

It's a bridge made of wood and steel arching over the river and there's a two-lane tarmac road running across it, wide enough to allow large vehicles to pass through. A spark of excitement begins to ignite in Pewdie's chest as they stare at the bridge, the first human-like thing they've seen in a long while. He can hear Cry's breathing quicken beside him and feels the latter's hand tug at his shirt sleeve, urging him onwards.

"Let's go," comes the invitation and Cry resumes his descent, his pace increased a notch and Pewdie scrambles down after him.

A road just means a new direction which will hopefully lead them closer to finding a town, Pewdie thinks. Soon, they don't have to stay out like this any longer. They could squat at an empty house and rest under a roof and sleep in a bed. Geez, when was the last time I slept in a proper bed anyway?

It takes them one or two hours to reach the bridge and when they arrive, they examine it from all angles as if it was an object of fascination. Pewdie looks up and down the length of the road on either side of the bridge, discerns a few tyre marks that have skidded into the grass by the side, and tries to decide on which direction they could follow which will lead them towards a town and fast.

All of a sudden, Cry is standing next to him and he's pointing at the direction that's leading upwards another slope. "That way," he says resolutely and Pewdie shoots him a look.

"Why that way?" he asks, peering at the direction that Cry is pointing towards. "There isn't a board of directions telling us which way to go."

"The skid marks," Cry says simply, motioning them with a nod of his head. "Those tracks look like they were made recently and whatever car that made those must have been going fast, right? And it looks like they've headed down that other direction, yes? Now, why would a car be driving away in a hurry like that?"

Instantly, Pewdie gets it and his eyes widen with understanding. "Because they're driving away from _somewhere_, like a town. Of _course_!" He proudly pats Cry on the back for his effort and says, "That's so smart. Good job, Cry!" and offers another victory fist bump to the other for good measure.

After travelling alongside the river for so long, they finally part from it and Pewdie is almost sad to see the channel of water go as they begin the next step of their journey on the tarmac road after they cross the bridge. Once they reach the peak of the slope, the ground suddenly evens out and they can now see clumps of suburban housing estates clustered together on either side of the long road they're on and beyond that, in the far distance, the grim structures and boxy shapes of brick and concrete buildings that make up a town.

"Holy _shit_," Cry breathes and then lets out a laugh beside him. It's the first real laugh Pewdie's heard from him for days.

"We made it," Pewdie exclaims, hardly believing what he's seeing and he's never been so happy to look at man-made buildings before. They look beautiful lying there in the dust and the sunlight. "We made it, Cry," he says again, suddenly feeling so excited he might burst. He seizes a still dazed Cry by the shoulders and spins him around on the spot. "We're back in civilisation again. I feel like a new man! And fucking hell, I'm getting sick of eating fish now. Let's break into a house and raid their fridge. Come on, Cry. I'm _pumped_. Let's fucking _do _this."

And then in a fit of exultation, he holds onto Cry's forearm and begins to drag him forwards, towards the nearest clump of suburban houses and Cry is breaking out into giggles and telling him to "Hang on, will you? I'm still a little dizzy after you spun me around too fast. Geez, stop, stop, _stop_ for a second. I'm trying to regain my balance here, man."

The moment they enter the backyard of the nearest house they reach, Pewdie immediately spots a pair of zombies inside, the first two they've seen in such a long time. They are two male zombies, an older one about thirty and another one younger by a couple of years – brothers, perhaps? – standing in different places from each other yet within sight of the windows and the half-open sliding glass door of the house. It's silent in the neighbourhood and they don't know how many zombies are out there apart from these two.

Pewdie watches the pair carefully by the glass door, notes their blank, twisted expressions and lolling mouths and the way they stand dazedly on the spot, waiting for some form of auditory stimuli to rouse them into activity. These are obviously the sleeping zombies, meaning that it's good news for them. They can sneak past these two and go on to explore the house silently and search for supplies, for food, and then get out of here. It will be just like the good old times with Cry when they planned and worked together on a supply run. He feels pumped enough for the job already. It's great to have this familiar feeling of purpose back after days, _weeks_ of endless walking and catching fish.

He senses that Cry is as excited as he is because he's suddenly tense around the shoulders again, gripping the makeshift strap of the shovel with his hand, and is breathing slowly like he's forcing himself to calm down. Pewdie puts a reassuring hand on his arm and feels Cry quivering under his fingers. When he squeezes the arm, Cry's eyes meet his and they're surprisingly hard and focused, and Pewdie silently rejoices inside when he easily reads the other man's gaze: _We go in and we close the door behind us. _

Fuck yes, Pewdie thinks. It's just like before. We can communicate with each other without saying it aloud. We're the awesome ninja stealth team once again. We're gonna do great.

Pewdie has his crowbar with him but he rarely uses it except for emergencies or when they need to break something without worrying about the noise. But Cry always insists he bring it with him in their supply runs anyway just in case something goes wrong. He clutches it in his hand right now, lets it hang by his side as he quietly slides the glass door open a little more. He reels back slightly when he's hit by the awful stench of body decomposition and bites back a disgusted comment.

They quietly slip inside once the gap in the door is large enough to allow them through and Pewdie finds himself standing in a pretty, well-lit dining room and kitchen area. The overall effect though is ruined by the shattered remains of some plates and the bloodstains on the carpet under the dining table. The two zombie siblings – it's clear now from the framed photographs on the wall – are languidly standing on different sides of the combined rooms, the younger of the pair by the kitchen sink and the older one by a staircase just outside the rooms. Pewdie watches them carefully as he slowly slides the door shut behind them, taking care to notice any change in the zombies, whether the miniscule noises they are making might draw their attention.

The first thing that Pewdie wants to target is the food cabinet instead of the fridge because he would really like something that hasn't gone bad and is in a box or a can or a packet. After that, he wants to search around the place for some booze to drink because he figures he and Cry deserve it after what they've been through. He also wants to find an empty house somewhere that they can stay in for a while just so Pewdie can jump into a bed and sleep for a whole week. What they need to do for all that to happen is to stay quiet, move slow, take their time and not wake the zombies up.

Except, this doesn't all go to plan. At least, it doesn't go how Pewdie expects it to go anyway.

Because Cry suddenly brushes past him and charges towards the zombie by the sink, the sudden burst of speed knocking his cap off his head to fall onto the ground. Shocked, Pewdie automatically reaches out a hand to stop him, but his voice is stifled in his throat when he watches Cry raise his shovel in the air only to swing it violently across the unsuspecting zombie's head.

There's a _clang _as the metal crashes against the side of creature's face with such force that the thin cheekbones shatter and crumple inwards, the eye ball bursts like a popped pimple and the jaw dislocates to the side. The swing's momentum throws the zombie to the ground and Pewdie is horrified to see a glimpse of what's left of its smashed face. It's short-lived when Cry stomps onto its chest to keep it still and drives the blade end of the shovel into the middle of its face once, twice, three times until it pierces the bone in a sharp _crack_ and the face becomes no more but a bashed-up, gory portrait.

Pewdie can't do anything but stare in dumb fascination at the sight before him because he realises with a start that he has never seen Cry kill before, that they have never killed anything during their supply runs or whenever they encounter zombies because they always run and hide whenever they see them. He's alarmed by the brutality of it, by how gut-wrenchingly violent the action seems in real life, especially when it had been done by someone familiar to him.

It's only when he hears a guttural voice snarling from somewhere nearby that he suddenly remembers that there's still one more zombie left in the house. Pewdie feels a flash of panic at the realisation that it would have woken up by the sounds of its sibling getting killed and – oh shit, there it is, he can see it staggering into the kitchen, dragging its broken knee, and it looks horrible, a chunk of its throat is gone after getting torn out and its neck and shirt are stained with so much dried blood. It's heading towards the noise, towards Cry, and Pewdie wants to scream out a warning but for some reason he's lost his voice, he can't move, and Cry, Cry is just _standing _there, what the _fuck_, man. Cry, _Cry_, look _out_–

But Cry strikes the moment the zombie launches itself at him like it was spring-loaded, and catches it on the side of the head in mid-air, making it crumple to the floor on all fours. And then he's on top of the creature and he's unleashing blow after blow onto the back of its head with the blade of his shovel until the skull breaks, until it shatters, until the whole thing collapses in a bloody mess of bones and brains which oozes all over the floor.

When Cry straightens up and lowers his dripping shovel, Pewdie sees that he's covered in blood, guts and brain juice. It's all over his clothes, his shovel, his hands, his face, his hair, his glasses, and Cry doesn't seem to care about this, doesn't seem bothered that there are two zombies with heads smashed into unrecognisable pulps by his feet.

But when Pewdie glimpses the other man's eyes, he is taken aback by what he sees, by the emotions swirling in that gaze, by the bloodlust and anger and delight and hurt and sadness contained in it. Combined with the blood-splattered appearance, Pewdie isn't sure if he's looking at Cry anymore. He's not even aware that he'd taken an unconscious step back when Cry lifts his head up to look at him and his eyes are bright and maniacal as he speaks in a strange, raspy voice, "Fucking hell, I haven't done this in a long, long time."

For the first time since the zombie apocalypse started, Pewdie finds himself utterly lost for words.

* * *

_So t__his wasn't a favourite chapter of mine at first. But it turned out okay in the end because I realised the synchrony in the way I wrote Cry's part for being a little long and draggy, to the long and draggy journey through the woods, to Cry's own thinking patterns, hence his restlessness to get out. The best part? I didn't even know this happened._

_Feedback, reviews, comments are, as always, appreciated. More detailed ones are cherished with extra care. _


	7. Chapter 7

Much heartfelt thanks to **CIAKat **for your comment for the previous chapter.

Here's another monster chapter for you folks. Sometimes I wonder how I can churn out 8K+worded chapters every week. Writing is such exhausting work after all.

* * *

**07.**

The moment when he storms towards that first zombie, there's a rush of exhilaration spreading like fire through his veins which bursts into a fit of violence as his shovel smashes into the creature's face. He watches as the impact crushes part of the skull inwards like a cracked egg, watches as it throws the undead man to the floor and he grinds it down with his foot and doesn't let one second of hesitation escape him as he stabs the shovel blade into that ruined face and breaks it even further.

And there's raw power filling him up and he can feel it tingling on the tips of his fingers where he's gripping his shovel. That first kill was done so swiftly, the movements so practiced and he easily recalls how natural it feels again, how he still has it in him to swing and smash things to obliteration, like recalling each note when playing an old melody on a piano.

And then while he stares down at his kill, satisfied at how precise his aim on its face had been, he's aware that the second zombie is staggering down towards him, its broken foot scratching against the floor as it drags itself closer. When he glances up, he's already tightening his grip on the handle of his shovel, counting to three, and doesn't flinch when the creature launches itself at him like some hideous, demented cat. He catches a glimpse of its torn neck as it flaps open like a gutted fish and the inside of its mouth that's missing a tongue between the twin rows of rotten teeth.

During the second kill, he lets himself go, lets out all his emotions – the guilt for losing their car, the frustration for walking miles and miles alongside a river for weeks, the exasperation for only having Pewdie for company, the impatience for reaching their destination, the excitement for getting a job done – he lets them drive his movements just like they did the first time he kills a zombie after Marilyn and George's deaths. He can't stab the shovel blade into the creature's face when he knocks it face-down so he resorts to repeatedly smashing it on the back of the head until it reduces into a bloody, juicy pulp.

Then he straightens up once again and he's panting for breath, his arms tingling and warm from the strain, feels the power still rippling through his form. He's aware that he's covered in blood and gore, feels it beginning to harden on his skin and he knows he's ready for more, ready to kill some more, ready to face another undead creature and bludgeon it to death.

_Damn, _he thinks. _It feels fucking good to let everything out._

Still high on the adrenaline that's rushing through his veins, he meets Pewdie's gaze by the sliding glass door, feels light-headed as he mutters to the other something about how long it's been since he'd done this. He wants to grin at him, reassure him that the danger has passed because he'd taken care of the problem but he's now aware of Pewdie's pale, shocked complexion as the latter stares back at him. At some point, the other man had dropped his crowbar where it lies there on the floor by his feet.

Cry frowns and motions towards the two bodies on the ground, "They're dead. It's safe now. We can hole up in this house for a couple of days." When he moves his head to emphasize his point, a gloop of congealed blood drops from his hair and slops messily onto his cheek. He wipes it away in disgust and realises he's only staining his face even more because his hands are red with blood. Geez, he'd forgotten how messy and often unhygienic this job can be.

When Pewdie doesn't answer him, which is a very odd thing for him to do, Cry shoots him a look of confusion and says a little more loudly this time, "Pewds, chill the fuck out. They're dead. We're _safe_ now."

He watches as Pewdie opens and closes his mouth a few times like a fish, looking as if he's grasping for words before he finally settles with a sharply delivered remark of, "Yeah, I _know _that already. Don't need to point out the obvious." Pewdie then detaches himself from the glass door, leaning down briefly to pick up his crowbar and Cry's fallen cap – Cry didn't even know it had fallen off his head that time – and creeps around the dining room table where the dead zombies lie, not wanting to come any closer to them. Pewdie seems fascinated by the state of the bodies on the floor at first before something changes in his face and he turns away, looking sick.

"Geez, bro," says Pewdie, motioning towards the bodies without looking at them. He is playing with Cry's cap in his hands, absent-mindedly smoothing the brim with his thumbs. "You weren't kidding when you said that you've got a talent with killing these things." His voice sounds oddly faint, as if uneasy.

"I didn't," Cry corrects in a matter-of-factly tone. "_You _made the assumption. And anyway, it's not really a talent. It's a necessity. Sometimes you've got no choice. Sometimes you've got to do it."

And that's when he realises that he and Pewdie never once killed any zombies when they were travelling together. He's heard from Pewdie once while they croon out bad pop songs in the car that the latter had only killed one zombie and that was mostly by accident. He knows that Pewdie has been surviving all this time by keeping to the roads and avoiding civilisation so of course he wouldn't have seen an actual killing in real life. Of course it makes sense now that he looks a little unnerved after Cry took care of the two zombies on the floor. It's no wonder that Pewdie seems a little wary of Cry now judging from the way he's leaning his body away as if he can feel that raw, brutal power radiating off Cry's form.

Cry wants to assure him that he's sorry if he'd given Pewdie a shock, that he may have overdone it with the killing. Except, he really isn't that sorry at all. These aren't like the videogames they'd played before. This is the harsh reality they live in now. This is not the time for Pewdie to be upset over this. This is the time for Pewdie to face the facts.

"Man up, bro," Cry says sternly. Although he can barely see Pewdie through his blood-stained glasses, he's standing close enough for Cry to discern his changing expression from dazed to attentive. "Did you think that we're going to spend the rest of our lives just sneaking past these bastards? Even if we could, how long can we keep that up? These things are like dormant bombs. How long can you tiptoe around them without setting them off?"

"I _know _that," says Pewdie again, his tone sounding insistent yet his eyes continue to look uncertain, unfocused. Cry just shakes his head, assumes that the other man is still unconvinced.

"Look, I did it because I had to," he begins, his tone firm and persistent. "Because we needed a place to stay for a bit. If you still think we can pull off this ninja stealth thing and go rest upstairs, how do we even _do_ that when we know for a fact that there are two sleeping zombies down here who can wake up at any moment if one of us screws up? Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"I fucking _know _that, Cry," Pewdie snaps this time, looking harried and impatient at the repetitive nature of Cry's words. "I get it, okay. All of it. We need to kill these sons of bitches sooner or later and when it comes down to it. I _get_ it. _Geez_."

"Then why do you still look like that?" Cry asks. He can't help but furrow his eyebrows into a frown.

"Like what?" Pewdie asks.

"Like you just swallowed something you shouldn't have," Cry tries his best to describe the expression. It's not really that accurate though. If he had to guess again, he thinks Pewdie looks rather shaken by the event, maybe a little bit bewildered by the reality of it, and possibly a little bit scared of Cry. Cry gets that vibe from the way Pewdie just can't seem to keep his eyes on him for more than five seconds, as if he can't stand to look at him.

Noticing this, Cry feels incredibly self-conscious of himself and of his actions and as he struggles to find words to get the other to stop doing that, the silence between them stretches on until it becomes too awkward to continue their line of conversation. So they stand there in disconcerted stillness over the sprawled, mutilated zombie bodies.

Then, another gloop of sloppy, congealed blood drops off Cry's hair and splatters onto the lens of his glasses, into his eyes.

"Shit, _gross_," Cry tears his glasses off his face to clear the disgusting gunk out of his eyes with a dry portion of his sleeve. He's aware now of how sticky and dirty he is, not to mention how spent and tired he feels after his adrenaline rush had died down completely. What he wants right now is to clean himself up and rest and he's not doing any of those things until they get rid of these two bodies.

"Help me out," Cry instructs, putting their air of discomfiture aside and propping his shovel against the wall. "We've got to toss these things out of the house. You take one of them and I'll take the other and we drag them outside. Come on, let's go," he adds when Pewdie doesn't move.

Cry leans down and takes hold of the ankles of the older zombie, waits until Pewdie puts his cap and crowbar on the dining table and comes over to retrieve the legs of the younger one, and then begins to pull. There is a nasty squelching sound as the remains of the zombie's skull slowly peels off the floor and – ugh, holy _shit_, that's _disgusting_. He can see the smashed bits of brain poking out of that demolished head, mixing with the fragmented pieces of bone and blood. Then there is the _stench_, like a rotten mix of decayed flesh, the sharp tang of iron and something else he can't quite identify. For once, he realises just how extreme his blows had been if it can reduce a human head into something as repulsive as this.

"Cry…" Pewdie's voice thankfully pulls his gaze away from the gory sight and at once, Cry recognises the sickly green pallor that Pewdie's complexion has taken as the latter stares at the zombie Cry is holding on to.

Alarmed, Cry lets go of the creature and reaches out to reassure him that he understands how he is feeling, how nauseating and sick the sight is making him – and realises with a start that _he _is feeling that right now. He shuts his eyes tight and fights off the urge to retch, to gag; forces himself to swallow down that wretched wave of nausea that's rising in his throat. He doesn't want to throw up. He _won't. _He'll fight this. He can get through this. Breathe, Cry. Fucking _breathe_. Count to ten, thirty, forty, fifty. _Breathe_.

When he opens his eyes, feeling a little more composed now, he sees that Pewdie has disappeared from his side and is currently rifling through the cabinets under the sink. When he straightens up, his face still a little pallid and sickly, he holds up a roll of black trash bags and some dish-washing rubber gloves for Cry to see.

"How the hell is that going to help?" Cry asks. He doesn't want to look at the zombies again because he's afraid he can't handle it the second time. He used to be so unperturbed by the sight but now, after he is forced to move them and sees exactly how gruesome it actually is, he's disgusted and sickened by the view. So no. No, he's definitely sure he can't handle this the second time.

"We have a shovel," Pewdie says simply, and pauses like the last time to let Cry figure out the rest of his plan.

And Cry does – and it's one of the things he remembers that makes him and Pewdie such a good team. He puts two and two together – the shovel, the gloves and the garbage bag, and knows what they're supposed to do. Except this will require some teamwork and a lot of will not to give in and throw up.

Pewdie already knows all this of course because he mutters, "I am not going to like this. Not one bit. Not one _bit. _Goddamn it." He's already busying himself with unrolling the bin bags and tearing a couple of them off. He passes Cry without looking at him, averts his gaze away from the bodies and drops two of the bin bags over the mutilated zombie heads, successfully covering them entirely from view with the black sheets. Cry is able to look at the bodies now without flinching, but the thought is not entirely reassuring. He knows that underneath those bin bags, the heads are still there, still battered to hell.

As Cry picks up his shovel from its place against the wall, Pewdie pulls on the rubber gloves and for one short second, their gazes connect and a quick message passes between them – _Ready_? And then Pewdie is picking his way through the pool of blood and gore surrounding the covered zombie head, wincing as he tries to keep his balance on the slippery gunkand crouches over the head end of the body. Cry can see the uneasiness in his face as he prepares his gloved hands, ready to wrap the head with the bin bag the moment Cry scoops it off the floor with his shovel.

"Just do it quickly," Cry offers the advice as he positions himself by the side of the head, hoping his words have some sort of reassuring effect on Pewdie, who is strangely silent right now. The last time they touched a dead zombie body was when they were pulling the barber shears out of its skull at that deathly strip mall. Cry remembers just how noisy Pewdie had been as they worked together at the extraction. But here, Pewdie's clenching his jaw, letting not one disgusted whine out of his mouth and his eyes seem unfocused, full of dread and reluctance for their task ahead.

Cry takes a deep breath through his mouth – he isn't going to do that through his nose if the whole place smells this bad – and tucks the tip of shovel blade under the black bin sheet, feels the not-quite solid remains of the smashed skull, and scoops upwards. There's that horrible wet, squelching sound again and Cry fights off the image of a gruesome head peeling off the floor and the wave of nausea that's threatening to come back to him. On the floor, he sees Pewdie squirm in disgust.

He thinks he's managed to scoop a good portion and lifts it slightly off the ground and Pewdie instantly acts, wraps the head and shovel blade loosely with the bin bag. Once secure, Cry carefully pulls his shovel back, the stained blade slipping out of the black sheet, and watches as Pewdie gathers two ends of the bin bag and tie them together in a tight knot. Once done, he drops it back down to the floor and immediately stands up and the bin bag splashes onto the puddle of blood, staining his shoes.

They allow themselves a few seconds to rest and prepare themselves again before they turn their attention to the other zombie. Again they work quietly, only because Cry thinks talking aloud might make the sickening feeling even worse, and when they're done, they try dragging the bodies and despite struggling with the heavy weight, it's easier, so much easier than before to do this without looking at the gory mess. They haul each dead corpse across the floor and leave a bloody trail behind, like red tyre skid marks, and dump them outside in the backyard. When Pewdie slides the door shut behind them, Cry goes to tug the thin lacy blinds over it to block their view outside. That's when they both breathe a sigh of relief.

For a brief moment, Cry allows a sense of security to wash over him before he's up and lifting his shovel again. He actually feels Pewdie's bewildered gaze on him, feels the question in his eyes.

"We need to check the entire house," Cry says as a way of response. "Secure the whole place, check for any more zombies, barricade exits in case something wants to come in, that sort of thing. We do that first, then we can go rest."

"…R-Right. We should go check upstairs first," Pewdie responds after a few seconds, his voice a little shakily as he picks up his crowbar. Again, his glance is wavering, unable to stay on him for too long. "Should we split up and cover more ground?" he adds almost absent-mindedly and Cry frowns, appalled by the idea.

"_No_, we stay together," he berates him. "What did I tell you about splitting up? We don't do that. We'll be safer together. Come on." He's a little annoyed at how unfocused Pewdie is and wants to try snapping him out of it, but he's sick of nagging so he lets it go and decides to give the other some time to calm down on his own.

They creep upstairs, the steps on the staircase making a slight creaking noise, and reach the landing where a shard of sunlight shines through a round framed window, lightening up the length of the hallway. One of the glass panels of the window has been swung open, allowing ventilation into the house. Four doors lie on either side of the landing, two of which hang open and they decide to go through the one nearest to the stairs.

It's a typical sort of bedroom that either of them could own. Posters of cars with the occasional attractive scantily-clad lady are plastered on the walls, a mini fridge stacked next to a desk with a dusty computer, some DVDs and a couple of car magazine issues heaped into a pile on a shelf, some clothes and other knick knacks lie scattered on the floor, a baseball jersey hangs off an office chair which had tipped over and fallen on its side on the carpet. There is also a collection of knives lined up on the unmade bed and a cleaning cloth followed by a bloody baseball bat propped against the bedframe.

There's another door inside the room and Cry nudges Pewdie to it and they cautiously push it open. In one glance, it's a bathroom with blue and white tiles, a boat-patterned curtain covering a bathtub and shower head, a porcelain toilet tucked between the bathtub and the sink. They both stiffen at the sight of something moving and realise that it's nothing but their reflections in the bathroom mirror.

When Cry and Pewdie stare at themselves properly for the first time in weeks, it's a shocking sight to behold. What is looking back at them from the mirror are two strangers resembling a pair of vagrant homeless men, bodies skinny, clothes frayed and dirty, their faces weary and weather-beaten, jawlines dark with stubble, their hair wild and unkempt. Cry can't believe that one of the pair is actually himself, that the face and clothes hidden underneath the blood and guts are actually his own. He's especially struck by the unfamiliarity of the red-rimmed eyes that are staring back at him behind blood-stained glasses because that gaze is hard and intense. It is like the gaze of someone who has seen so many things that he regrets seeing, that he wishes he never had.

"Holy fuck," Pewdie breathes beside him and his face in the mirror twists into that of astonishment.

Cry blinks out of his dazed trance, trying not to glance at his reflection again and reminds himself not to forget their priorities. Leaving Pewdie's side for a while, he turns his attention towards the bathtub where a shower curtain is drawn over it, hiding it from view. He approaches it cautiously, one hand gripping his shovel, and slowly pulls the curtain to find nothing inside. He does, however, discover a small square window above the tub and when he climbs in and stands on tiptoe to look through the window, he sees the backyard below him and beyond that, the road they had travelled from.

A sudden gurgling noise coming from behind him startles him from his observation and Cry stumbles unsteadily on the balls of his feet, trying to regain his lost balance. When he hears Pewdie swear something in Swedish, he turns around to find that the other man had jumped back from the sink, staring at it in alarm. About a second later, the tap gives a visible shudder and a jet of water spits out of it in a gushing stream and begins to fill the bowl of the sink.

"Oh my god," says Cry, unable to believe what he's seeing as he climbs out of the tub and takes a step closer towards the sink.

"Water," Pewdie exclaims softly, looking even more bewildered than he is. "I didn't – it was an accident. I turned it on by accident but… Hey, we've got running water. How…? How in the hell is that even possible?"

The question makes Cry think about what he'd seen a minute ago so he turns and climbs back into the bathtub to peer out the window once more and study the backyard underneath them more carefully. There are two steel water storage tanks outside that they walked past and hadn't noticed.

"The water is supplied directly from the water tanks outside," Cry explains as he steps back out of the bathtub and turns on the tap, watching thin sprays of water sprinkle out of the shower head before quickly shutting it off. "I guess we can clean ourselves up with this but we need to be careful not to use a lot. We don't know how much water is left in those tanks outside. Come on, we should check out the rest of the house."

The rest of the house lies in the clear for them as there is nothing living or undead hidden behind any door, around any corner, under any piece of furniture or inside any compartment. After they finish blocking some of the exits with heavy furniture, they linger at the bottom of the stairs together.

"You should go and take that shower," Pewdie recommends and his tone is the steadiest it's been since they'd entered the house. "You look like you need it more than me," he adds with a motion of his head and Cry can't help but agree. The blood in his hair had hardened, making it stiff on his head, and he knows he smells like one of the undead.

Cry gives Pewdie a stern look and says, "Keep your guard up and don't go outside, okay?" and waits until he gets a nod of confirmation before he makes his way upstairs back to that first bedroom. He slips his bag off his back and enters the bathroom, making sure to keep the door unlocked in case he needed a quick escape. After peeling off his bloodied clothes, he steps into the bathtub, draws the curtains and turns on the tap full blast.

Once he walks out of the bathroom freshly scrubbed, brushed and shaved, he finds to his surprise a pile of fresh clothes neatly placed on the floor right outside the bathroom door which he knows wasn't there before. He guesses this must have been Pewdie's work. The other man must have come by and went to search for something clean for him to wear. Cry feels a warm, tingling feeling in his chest at Pewdie's considerate gesture and wonders where the latter might be now. After pulling the clothes on, he realises his body has never felt so tired and heavy before.

Cry sweeps the knives, cleaning cloth and baseball bat off the bed, lets them all clatter onto the floor and he throws himself on top of the bed sheets, instantly falling straight to sleep the moment his head hits the pillows.

By the time he wakes up, he finds himself buried under pillows and blankets and it's warm and comfortable here. It's almost as if he's back home, as if he's just waking up to his once-normal life on an early evening, ready to spend the next couple of hours playing videogames. What a distant dream that all feels now and it hurts, this nostalgia, this yearning for the old, better days. He'd give anything to have them back again, to escape this terrible reality he's in, to go back to being himself before all this zombie hell happened. But for now, he allows himself to bask in the peaceful, drowsy silence, on the soft springy bed, nestled in the warmth of the bed sheets.

Except he doesn't bask under the sheets that long. Because he can now smell an amazing aroma that's seeping through the door of the bedroom, making his mouth water and his stomach grumble in response. Food! He thinks. Is that actual _cooked_ food? Is someone cooking somewhere? How is there cooked food? Where is the _food_?

The next thing he knows, he's out of the bedroom and is following the scent like a sniffing dog on the trail of a criminal. It leads him to another bedroom with a little office at the far end of the hallway, near the framed window. When he steps inside, he finds that it seems to have been converted into a mini-kitchen.

The bookcase which once displayed an impressive collection of books has been cleared out to make space for packet, bagged and canned dry food items which now fill a couple of its shelves. There are also bottles, jars of sauces and seasoning pots tucked into another shelf, a couple of Tupperware containers piled up in a different one and finally, some pots and pans shoved into the shelves at the bottom. There's a coffee table that's laden with a holder full of cutleries, plates and a box of tissues on one end while over at the work desk, a camping gas stove sits on its surface, connected to a fuel container. There's also an opened can of tomatoes and mushrooms, a stained dishtowel, a bottle of olive oil, a salt shaker, a chopping board and a knife placed next to the stove on the desk.

Pewdie is standing there by that stove, stirring something in a pot with a wooden spatula and it's something of a bizarre sight for Cry to see. It's not because of the knowledge that Pewdie can cook which baffles him, it's the act of cooking itself. It's shocking to see such a normal day-to-day act like cooking to occur in a crazy, distorted world like this.

Cry doesn't have time to mull on this further because the attractive scent that's coming from the pot distracts him from his thoughts, drawing him closer until something in the aroma tickles his nose, making him sneeze. Pewdie hears it and jumps_,_ whipping around in alarm to find only Cry there.

"_Yeeey_, don't… don't _do _that," Pewdie whimpers as he clutches his chest to calm himself down. Cry notices that Pewdie has cleaned himself up too – he's wearing a new set of clothes, his gaunt face now smooth and clean-shaven and his hair is back in its lustrous, fluffy state.

"Sorry," Cry apologises, forgetting Pewdie's easily startled disposition. He peers over Pewdie's shoulder and recognises the long noodle-shaped pasta inside the pot. Cry tries to remember when he had last eaten pasta or a cooked meal and finds that he can't. Instead, he stares hungrily at the hot food and he can feel his body shake with anticipation and impatience for it – because dammit, he's never felt so _hungry _before _– _but luckily, Pewdie's already done with cooking. After turning off the stove, he lifts the pot up, makes his way towards the coffee table and places the whole thing there. Once he spoons a decent portion onto two plates, he hands one to Cry and they both sit cross-legged on either side of the coffee table and dig in without another word.

Cry thinks he's never tasted anything so delicious in his life even after he burns his tongue when he shoves a forkful of hot pasta into his mouth, even when he finds that the flavour leans a bit too much on the tomato, even when the mushrooms feel rubbery and unpleasant on his tongue when he chews on them. He doesn't care for all of that as he lets the taste explode in his mouth before swallowing most of the food down without chewing much. After he cleans his plate in a matter of minutes, he's scooping out a second, third, fourth portion from the pot, falling onto it like a lion on a juicy piece of meat and shovels in forkfuls until he forgets for a while that Pewdie is there, eating opposite him. He's only focused on satisfying the hunger that has gnawed on him for so long and relishing the experience of finally eating a home-cooked meal.

It's only when he finishes licking his plate and peers into the pot to find it empty that he finally settles down to breathe. He suddenly remembers that Pewdie is there when the latter sets down a can of coke in front of him.

"How long was I out?" Cry asks, popping the cap off the can and chugging down a few mouthfuls, wincing slightly at the drink's lukewarm temperature.

He watches as Pewdie's mouth quirks upwards into a half-grin, "Do you really want to know? Well, you slept for about a day and a half, I think. Or maybe it was a little more than twenty-four hours. Basically, you were out for a long while."

"Wow," says Cry. "I must have been really, really tired. Even more than I thought."

"You feeling better though?" Pewdie asks, sipping his own can of coke.

"Yeah, yeah, _loads _better, thanks," Cry answers. "But, ah… what about you? Did you get any sleep the whole time I was out?"

Pewdie shrugs nonchalantly. "Yeah I did. Maybe every four hours or so… uh, but _only_ when it's safe, of _course_," he adds as if he's saying this for Cry's benefit, like a child telling his parents what they wanted to hear. Cry frowns in response, wanting to address this because it's the first time he notices this carefulness in the other's tone, as if he is choosing his words carefully for Cry to hear. It puts him in mind of poking a sleeping bear on the side and hoping that none of the prods would wake it up from slumber.

Unfortunately, Pewdie catches the frown on Cry's face and assumes something of it because he suddenly falls silent, looking away from him as he jiggles the coke can in his hand.

They're quiet for a bit, sipping their lukewarm drinks, and Cry decides to distract himself from this awkwardness by looking around the room.

"What happened here?" he asks casually, breaking their silence. He motions towards the bookcase and camping stove in particular with the hand that's holding his can. He sees Pewdie's face brighten a little at his words.

"It's now a kitchen," Pewdie says proudly. "Found the stove downstairs in the basement. You wouldn't believe the kinds of shit these people have. The cans of food and stuff are from the real kitchen and I moved the ones that are still good up here because it smells so fucking bad downstairs. With this amount of food and the cooking stove and the running water, we can stay in here for a couple of days at least. It's great, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it certainly is," Cry agrees.

Somehow, they fall into another uneasy silence and Cry realises for the first time the nature of their present relationship, how it seems to be slowly spiralling downwards ever since they'd lost the car. He doesn't understand why it's suddenly become so awkward between them, why Pewdie is reacting like this towards him, why Cry gets frequently annoyed when in Pewdie's company. He thought that they were good after their reconciliations back when they were travelling through wilderness and yet, for some reason, it doesn't seem like that is still the case ever since they entered the house. Could it be that Pewdie may still be affected by Cry's violent display yesterday? Could that be the factor that is causing this uneasy air between them lately?

He doesn't have time to come up with a decision to make things better between them because Pewdie gets up and begins collecting the dirty cutlery into his arms, stacking them on top of each other. "Come on," he says invitingly. "Let's clean this stuff up in the bathroom."

Cry silently complies with the invitation and they spend about ten minutes washing up in the much larger bathroom which lies opposite the 'mini-kitchen'. They're quiet when they do this but it actually isn't so bad having Pewdie scrub the pots and plates with soap and try to rinse it in the too-small sink bowl while Cry, on the other hand, wipes the items dry with a face towel that they found under the bathroom sink.

It's weird, what they're doing – these two ordinary guys who have grown used to travelling and running away from zombies now engrossed in a simple, domestic household chore like this. For Cry, the rough, calloused hands which had not long ago gripped a shovel used to kill a pair of undead creatures are now handling delicate porcelain. What a strange world they live in now, he thinks to himself. It's weird how normal things like this no longer feel that normal anymore.

Once they finish, he and Pewdie retreat back to the 'mini-kitchen' and place the cleaned items into the shelves of the bookcase. Cry feels the pleasant sensation of accomplishment at their task as he stands before it to inspect their effort. Then Pewdie nudges his forearm gently with his hand and motions towards the stairs, "Come downstairs. Let's go clean up that kitchen."

"Wait, what?" Cry asks but he can't do so any further because Pewdie has already left the room and Cry can hear his footsteps moving down the hallway. He has no choice but to follow him down the staircase.

The kitchen and dining room area are still left in its eerie, deathly state and Cry sees the bloody trails and footsteps marked along the floor, a frightening sticky, red path leading towards the sliding glass door that's covered by the thin lacy curtain. Pewdie sidesteps this path, heads towards the cabinet under the sink and begins to take out a variety of cleaning agents and utensils. Cry can't do much but gape at what the other man is doing.

"You're kidding, right?" he finally says in disbelief. He wants to laugh at all of this because he thinks that Pewdie has lost it. Whatever shock the other man had undergone when he witnessed Cry's killing display must have driven the sense out of his head. How can Pewdie be thinking of something as unimportant as _this_ when they should be doing something else that's related to prolonging their survival?

Pewdie shoots him a look, "Actually, I'm pretty serious about this. I don't feel comfortable with all this blood downstairs, man. Also, it's pretty _unhygienic_."

"It's not our concern," Cry protests, motioning towards the bloody trails. Also, since when is Pewdie this serious anyway? He isn't sure what to make of it. Either Pewdie is fooling around or something might really be wrong with him. "Seriously, Pewds," Cry continues. "Why do we have to clean this up? It's not like we're going to be here long. We're only staying for a couple of days anyway. It's kind of pointless."

Cry's words make Pewdie merely shake his head slightly. The other man had just extracted a plastic bucket and mop out of a cupboard somewhere and is currently filling the bucket with water from the tap.

"It _isn't _pointless," Pewdie says, frowning slightly at the bucket he's holding. "We're really lucky to have food and gas and running water here but we can't just do whatever the hell we want. We should respect it – this house, I mean – for giving us shelter. I mean, it makes sense, right? The least we can do to make up for intruding is to clean up our own mess. It's the only right thing to do after all." He briefly glances back up and meets Cry's gaze, "Do you… get what I'm saying?"

Cry does, he _does_ get it. What's more is that he's so surprised by the considerate, respectful nature of that reasoning. It's such a humanly thing to think about – that moment when you feel obliged to clean up your own mess while staying over at someone's house out of respect for your hosts. Cry is surprised that after all they've been through, after surviving this game for so long by following a different set of rules, Pewdie still has it in him to retain some form of human courtesy. He still puts some value on the little things that used to matter. Unlike Cry who has been hardened by his experiences, Pewdie is still safe, not yet broken by the harsh, ugly reality they live in now.

Cry hopes that Pewdie will never let go of that human aspect of his in the future days to come.

So he nods in response to Pewdie's question, braving a smile to let the other know that he agrees with him, that he understands. He comes over and picks up a plastic bottle of floor cleaner from the sink and asks, "Okay. So where do we start?"

It takes most of the afternoon to clean the kitchen and dining room. With some combined effort, they lift the heavy dining table to tug the stained carpet free and toss it out of the house. Afterwards, it takes them almost three buckets of water and soap to get rid of the bloodstains on the floor with Pewdie insisting they disinfect it with some diluted Dettol once it's clear of the blood and guts. It smells so much better now once they swab the floors with two coats of Dettol and leave it to dry, even if it does fill the rooms with the strong, chemical scent of disinfectant. Pewdie eyes the refrigerator once they finish and goes back to the cabinet under the sink to extract the roll of black bin bags.

"Are you ready for this?" he asks and at first, Cry isn't sure what he's really talking about.

"Ready for what?" Cry replies in return. To be honest, he feels ready for anything at the moment. It's good to be able to do something again apart from just running away, even if it is performing a simple household chore like this. He's starting to understand why some people enjoy cleaning so much. The reward for it is splendid – he feels the satisfied state of accomplishment that one gets after knowing you'd finished tackling a dirty, untidy room and restored it back to its beautiful, clean state. He follows Pewdie's gaze on the refrigerator, puts two-on-two together – fridge and bin bags, and purses his lips thoughtfully.

"What do you think is in there?" he asks.

"Maybe a mutated monster," Pewdie says jokily. "This fridge hasn't had electricity in a while. Maybe for a whole month, I dunno. Who knows what sort of things have grown in there? You might want to go get yourselves some gloves or something. You really don't want to touch the stuff in there with your bare hands."

It turns out it's so much worse than they thought. The moment they pry the fridge door open, it's completely unrecognisable inside. They can just discern some shapes of what used to be food on the shelves but the whole thing – the whole fucking interior of the fridge – is covered in a thick, disgusting, fuzzy coat of black, grey and green mould.

Pewdie snaps the door shut with a thud. His face has taken on a faint greenish tinge. Cry, on the other hand, had clamped a hand over his own mouth, forcing himself not to gag at the sickening sight.

"I think we should just throw this whole thing out," Pewdie says faintly, swallowing hard. "Nobody needs it anymore."

"How…?" Cry tries to say, his voice muffled behind his hand. He wants to say how it could be possible for that much mould to form from rotten food stored in the fridge, but he can barely hold his nausea back.

"Can you estimate how many months have passed since all this crazy shit started?" Pewdie murmurs, having guessed what Cry had intended to say. "Geez, I don't even remember myself. Maybe less than four months? Maybe more? It _does _get pretty hot down here at times, especially if you don't crack a window open. Maybe the guys who lived here didn't bother touching the fridge since they can't use it anyway without electricity. So time passes and it got worse."

Cry manages to swallow his nausea down and puts his hand away from his mouth so he can take a deep breath to compose himself. "Let's just get this thing out of here," he suggests. "Just looking at it is making me sick again."

They feel much better once they dump the fridge onto the backyard with the zombie bodies. They mop up the dusty square of space left by the refrigerator and disinfect it afterwards. The kitchen and dining room look fantastic now, especially the floor, which shines from the sunrays coming through the windows.

As they stand there and inspect their work, Cry feels a sense of warm camaraderie return to him – that same feeling which had filled his chest from the time when he and Pewdie pulled themselves out of their wrecked car. Perhaps whatever uneasy thing between them has dissipated like the blood trails on the floor. Maybe Cry had been overthinking it when he assumed that there was a downward spiral in their relationship. Maybe it's just a bumpy hurdle that they'd easily jumped over.

"Good job, Cry," says Pewdie beside him. "We make a great cleaning team," he adds and casually lifts his fist at him without looking and Cry almost smiles, his lightened heart warmed by the gesture, and bumps the fist without another thought.

"We should get paid for this," Cry supplies heartily as he withdraws his hand and hears Pewdie snort with laughter.

"Yeah, we'll make a good business out of it too," the other man says, a half-grin breaking out of his face. "People are too busy worrying about zombies to clean their houses. We can do it for them in exchange for gas or water or home-cooked meals."

"That's a great idea," Cry says enthusiastically. "The dirtier the house, the more demanding the job, the bigger the meal."

Suddenly, he realises he's hungry and his stomach acknowledges this thought by releasing a growl that demands for attention. Pewdie shoots him a look of amusement.

"I was thinking we could have beans or something tonight," he suggests, eyebrows wiggling knowingly. "Or we could throw everything in a pot and make some sort of stew."

Cry opens his mouth to say he's fine either way but his stomach gets there first and rumbles loudly in agreement. He rolls his eyes in response, aware that a creeping heat is making its way up his neck.

"There's no time to lose," Pewdie says in acknowledgment, tugging him by the sleeve towards the staircase. "That stew isn't going to cook itself. The sun's going to set soon. We can't do this shit in the dark."

"_We_?" Cry echoes in confusion as they ascend the stairs, their footsteps making the steps creak.

"Yes, '_we'_," Pewdie responds a little impatiently and casts him a look from over his shoulder. "You think _I'm _the only one who's going to do all the work here? It's about time you learn the tricks of the trade, bro."

* * *

For the last twenty-four hours, Pewdie has been trying hard. He has been trying hard to assure himself that they have been lucky to get this far, to look at death in the face and escape from it a few times, from their run-ins with zombies, climbing out unscathed from a car crash and surviving in the wilderness for weeks on end. They're lucky that they managed to last this long because they're aware of how to play by the rules of this chaotic world now; they know that sometimes it's necessary to do things in order to survive, even if it resorts to violence and killing. He knows that. He _gets _it already.

But what Pewdie doesn't understand after all that assurance is why he actually feels differently compared to what he thinks. Whatever reason that the rational part of him presents, whatever thought he repeats in his head to convince himself that it makes sense, they don't seem to coordinate with his own feelings. Cry had noticed this already, seen the discrepancy between Pewdie's words and the emotions which had peeked through his expression.

Pewdie knows where his thoughts stand because he's aware of the fact that Cry has killed zombies before. He's seen the latter's work back when they reunited at that gas station store, so he shouldn't be surprised by what he'd seen or feel alarmed by what Cry is capable of. Except that he is. Or rather, he doesn't know what to _feel_ about it, doesn't know what he feels about Cry. Pewdie thought he knew the other man – after all, they've been travelling together for the past few months – but after seeing the brutality of his kills and the mixed emotions that were blazing in the other's eyes, he just doesn't know anymore.

Which is why he's been unsure about how to act around Cry lately. He finds himself saying his words even more carefully now because he doesn't know whether the wrong thing might trigger something he would regret. He's aware that when he looks into Cry's eyes, he expects to see that swirl of emotions raging inside and he can't keep his gaze on him long enough to find out. He knows that Cry senses his wariness and it does sort of explain the state of things between them. Pewdie's uncertainty and occasional loss for words seem to be causing this uneasy air between them, making them frequently fall into awkward silences.

"These are tough times for you both," says Map when Pewdie sits down to rest after he finishes arranging the cans, packets and bags of dry food he brought up from the kitchen onto the bookshelves. "You were lucky to escape from the worst of it in a car. Cry had to endure it out there by himself for those first three weeks. Remember when you thought he seemed different the first time he joined us? How tense he was that he jumps at every sound? Three weeks trying to adjust to this reality can change a guy. After what you saw before, you might think that Cry seems to have become a different person but that's only because time and experience have changed him. Just like it has done to you too."

"Maybe you're right," Pewdie murmurs in response. "I shouldn't act weird around him. He'll think something's wrong or… I don't know. The point is, it won't do us both good if this keeps up."

So after Cry wakes up and they finish eating their pasta, Pewdie tries to clear this awkwardness between them and he knows the best way for them to communicate easily is if they find some task they can do that allows them to work together. It works magnificently, their combined teamwork to clean the blood trails off the kitchen floor and remove the refrigerator from the house, and he knows that they've reached the point where they're okay again when Pewdie casually offers a fist bump to the other, almost expecting him not to respond, but he's so, so glad when Cry does in the end.

After a heavy dinner of stew which leaves Cry with a full stomach and a drowsy head, Pewdie lets the other go back to his room to rest while he decides to pass the time by picking up an LED lantern he found earlier and continuing his exploration in the basement downstairs. When he emerges a few hours later, it's night time outside the house and he climbs the stairs to find the landing lying in complete darkness. He eagerly knocks on Cry's door, not caring if the other might still be asleep, because they have _got _to do this thing that Pewdie is going to propose and he's sure that Cry will like it.

After a couple more knocks, he can hear a muffled curse, some clumsy footsteps stumbling across the room followed by a _thud _as something bumps against the door. It then swings open to reveal a groggy, bleary-eyed Cry who is squinting at him with no glasses.

"Cry!" Pewdie exclaims with a grin. The LED lantern he holds is the only source of light in the whole house right now and it illuminates Cry's tired face. Pewdie's not sure if Cry is squinting or glaring at him but either way Pewdie knows that the other man is only annoyed with him now because he had been forcefully woken up from his slumber.

"Pewds?" Cry murmurs as he rubs his eyes, trying to look alert. "What is it? Is it trouble?"

"No, no," says Pewdie in a low whisper and he doesn't know why he's doing it. It could just be the darkness and silence of the house that's making him do that. "I got something to show you. Look what I found!"

Ecstatic with excitement, Pewdie lowers the lantern to let it shine on the items he's carrying in his other arm. A small cool box swings from the inner joint of his elbow and an old-fashioned board game is tucked underneath his armpit. He sees Cry squint at the two things for a long while before the latter breaks the stillness with, "Wait, let me go get my glasses. I can't see a goddamn thing in this darkness. Bring that light in, will you?"

The room is pitch black when Pewdie looks in but as he steps inside and shuts the door, the light from the lantern turns out to be strong enough to illuminate almost half of the room. He can just see the unmade bed, the knives and baseball bat on the floor, the office chair now put upright, the mini-fridge next to the desk, the dusty computer as well as a poster of an attractive woman sprawled across the hood of a sleek sports car on the wall.

Cry retrieves his glasses somewhere from within his tangled bed sheets and hastily puts them on. He's still holding onto the temples as he stares at the items in Pewdie's arm, trying to discern them and Pewdie decides to be helpful by setting down all the items he's holding onto the floor and popping open the lid of the cool box while he's at it.

Cry's eyes widen, "What–?" he says and there's a twitch as the corner of his lip stretches into a smile.

Pewdie reaches into the cool box and lifts out one of a couple of six packs of canned beer stacked inside and sets it on the floor. He grins widely and says, "We are so getting drunk tonight."

"You know that could be potentially dangerous," Cry says with a raised eyebrow and although Pewdie doesn't know whether this may be a precursor to a harsh scolding or whether Cry is just joking around, he can't help but tense slightly in response. He wonders, have I done the wrong thing?

"But as long as we stay quiet and don't attract attention, I don't see why not," Cry suddenly cuts in as if he senses Pewdie's hesitation. "I mean, I guess we deserve a break. Not think about the apocalypse for a while."

Pewdie relaxes, seeing that it's a false alarm, and plops himself on the floor, kicking the bloody baseball bat away with his foot. "Come and sit down, Cry," he says invitingly, patting the spot on the floor next to him. "And let me buy you a drink– I mean, _get _you a drink."

"Wow, are you trying to hit on me?" Cry asks, trying not to laugh as he sits down and helps himself to a beer can instead of taking up the offer. To Pewdie's surprise though, Cry extracts an extra can from the pack and hands it over him.

"What have you got there?" Cry asks, motioning towards the board game with a nod of his head. His fingers are busy pushing the cap of the beer can open. Once he's done, he gulps down a few mouthfuls.

"Can't you see?" Pewdie says, popping open his own can to take a sip – _ugh, _it's lukewarm – and pushes the item closer to the light. The cover is dusty and very faded but you can just about see its colourful illustration.

"_Snakes and Ladders_?" Cry says, huffing a laugh of disbelief as he tugs the board game closer towards him. "_Snakes and _fucking _Ladders_? Are you kidding me? Out of all the games you could've found in this house, you chose for us to play _this_ one?"

"Hey, it's a _classic_," Pewdie protests. "You know you love it. Shut up and open that box and let's play. I want to be that red token. Come on, hurry up."

"Alright, alright," says Cry heartily, opening the box to take out the contents inside. Except, a cloud of dust explodes into the air and hits their faces, making both Pewdie and Cry recoil and sneeze all at the same time.

"This thing is really old," Cry sniffs, unfolding the board which emits a crackle as he straightens it. He sets it on the floor next to the lantern and hunts around for the tokens and dice. "Right, you wanted the red token right? Here's a green one. Guess I'll use that."

"I got an idea," Pewdie says, pulling the cool box towards him to take out the rest of the six packs. "Let's do a drinking game. We play this board game and then every time we go up a ladder or go down a snake, we take a drink. We don't touch our cans unless we get a ladder or a snake, okay? We do this as many times as we want. We've got like a bazillion cans to go through."

"I've never heard of a drinking game like that," Cry says.

"Don't question me," Pewdie says demandingly. "New rule: every time you question me, you take a drink. Go, Cry. Go drink."

"Hey, how come this rule only applies to me?" Cry asks but complies with the order anyway, taking a large gulp of his can and sighing loudly despite the tepid temperature as he pulls it away from his mouth.

"_Drink_," Pewdie points towards Cry's can. "You asked another question. Take another drink."

"Let's just fucking _start_," Cry grumbles after he chugs down another mouthful and snatches up the die. "I'll make sure you get drunk enough so that I win this game."

Pewdie doesn't know how long time passes as they play and drink. The only indication for it is the number of beer cans they consume and leave lying around. They become so engrossed in their game that it almost feels like the good old days when they played co-op videogames together, complete with their own crazy commentaries. The longer they play, the more beverages they consume until he and Cry begin to explode into giggles or randomly break into song for the sole reason that they just feel like it. Pewdie savours this feeling, however nostalgic and sad it actually is, and wishes things could somehow go back to the way they were once they are found and saved.

"Don't worry about it, Cry," Pewdie mumbles into the fifth or sixth round of their game, lazily waving a dismissing hand in the air after he moves his token up a ladder and takes a drink. "Don't even worry about it."

"But that doesn't make _sense_," Cry slurs, tossing the die onto the board and moving his green token across it. "You don't just climb up ladders, you can go down them too, right? Like, you can't do that with a snake. You hit a snake, you only go down– _Whoa_– you…you went down a snake. Go take a drink."

"I'm still a few squares higher than you," Pewdie points out, taking a mouthful of beer and moves his token downwards. "Bet you can't top that, bitch."

Cry lets out another breathy giggle and says, "Just you wait. I'm– I'm coming up there and kicking you back down."

"Just roll the dice, Cry," Pewdie says.

"It's not a _dice_, it's a _die,_" Cry corrects, with an empathetic tilt of his head. "A die is one dice, a dice is two dice – no, wait. A dice is one and a die is two."

"Don't worry about it, Cry," says Pewdie cheerfully once more. "Stop thinking. Cease all thinking mechanisms and just roll the fucking dice."

"Oh okay," says Cry with a shrug and Pewdie snorts in laughter as he watches the other roll the die. It comes up to six dots and Cry whines when his green token hits a snake and he is forced to move it three rows below Pewdie's. At Pewdie's knowing look, Cry grudgingly lifts the beer can a little too quickly to his mouth so that when he tries to swallow a mouthful, some of it spills down his chin.

"Whoa, you – ha, ha – are you okay there?" Pewdie asks, snorting and heaving and gasping with laughter like a braying donkey as Cry splutters and waves his hand at him dismissingly.

"'M fine, I'm fine," he wheezes and goes to take a drink again. "Why aren't you rolling the dice– the die? It's your turn after all."

Pewdie feels the pleasant buzz from the alcohol fill his head like air to a balloon, making him light-headed and empty. For once, his thoughts are unburdened by anything related to zombies or the disordered world outside. Instead, he finds everything around him fucking hilarious and he can't believe that they've been living and running away in fear all this time because it seems so distant to him right now, everything they've gone through trapped in a dreamy haze. He also doesn't understand why he'd think that he and Cry's relationship seems to stand on unsteady ground. How can that be? They're getting along well right _now_, laughing and drinking together. How can he possibly worry about the world that has ended out there when he and Cry have not?

He thinks he's reached the point in his state of intoxication where his head feels heavy and the room tilts and sways in his vision. The next thing he knows is that he's looking at the ceiling and his head sort of hurts. He thinks he must have collapsed and hit it at some point but he doesn't have any recollection of it. His thoughts are fuzzy and disorientated, his vision blurry and he's not sure if he's still talking or singing or laughing or not.

He must have passed out at some point because when he opens his eyes, he sees the ceiling again and it's still night time. It shouldn't have been more than five minutes since he'd drifted off into brief unconsciousness. Although his head still seems too heavy to lift, his whole body feels as light as a feather and his mind is startlingly clear. He's never felt so relaxed, lying spread-eagle on the floor like this with numerous empty beer cans scattered all around him under the glow of the LED lantern. He basks in this quiet, peaceful air about him and thinks. Thinks about his life before, his life now, his life after.

"…Hey, Pewds?" comes Cry's quiet mumble from somewhere beside him.

Pewdie turns his head a little and sees Cry lying on his back like him but his eyes are half-open, staring at nothing before him. The game board is the only thing which separates them from each other.

"I want to ask you something," Cry continues to murmur almost sleepily. "That time, with those zombie brothers… Were you… Were you scared of me when I killed them?"

Pewdie doesn't know what to answer at first because he's busy trying to understand Cry's words. He slowly recalls the scene a little more than a day ago, the moment they enter the house and shut the sliding door, the moment when Cry flies towards the undead creatures and bashes them to death, the moment Pewdie sees his wild, terrifying eyes.

"Were you scared of me?" Cry asks again, his voice sounding quiet and hesitant.

"Yeah," Pewdie murmurs admittedly. "Yeah, I was at first. You were… you looked weird, man. But I get it. I get why you had to do that."

"You shouldn't… you shouldn't let it get to you," says Cry in an attempt to sound reasonable although it does come out a little nervous instead. "Whatever it is you gotta do, you gotta act fast. Don't hesitate even for a second. Sometimes you need to be that way to make sure you don't get caught off guard."

"Yeah, I know all that. I _do_," Pewdie says insistently. "But…"

"I get it," says Cry in a sympathetic tone. "You still need some more time to accept this."

Pewdie hums in agreement, finally realising it to be the case. He sees it clearly now, that despite telling himself what he should think, it is really his feelings which speak the truth about himself, "Yeah, maybe."

"Don't take too long," Cry advises grimly. "You have to suck it up and move on. You shouldn't let things like that distract you."

"Hm, I'll try," Pewdie says in response and they both fall into a brief pause. Pewdie feels a little relieved now after acknowledging his true feelings, so much so that he's bold enough to say, "Hey, I want to ask_ you_ something now and I won't bullshit this either. But… are we still good? I mean, for the past few weeks in the woods and all, we haven't been doing well. I mean, we _did _and then it just seems to go down again. I don't know but... I'm sure you'd noticed how weird it feels lately when we're together."

"Yeah, I have," says Cry with a sigh and it sounds like he's been expecting this to come up sooner or later. "I notice I get a little… cranky when I'm with you sometimes. I don't talk to you as often and it looks like I'm mad at you for something you did. I don't… I don't mean any of that. Whatever weird mood I was in at that time or whether it happens again in the future, it's not because I don't want you here with me… so, yeah. I just want you to understand that."

Pewdie finds himself beaming at the words, at the effort that Cry is putting in for opening up to him. He makes a show of sighing dramatically in relief and says, "That's good to know. I was starting to think you didn't like me anymore. I know I can get pretty annoying at times and I'm sorry for that."

"Yeah, yeah, you _do_ get pretty annoying," Cry doesn't hesitate to confirm that, the bastard. "But then, aren't we all? Sometimes we can't help it, right? Sometimes we can't help but get on each other's nerves. Circumstances just make us act that way. We just got to pull through it and then we'll be okay."

"What about you though?" Pewdie asks hesitantly. "Are _you_ doing okay?"

"What _about _me?"

"That was some pretty gory stuff you did back there. I mean, I _did_ mention you looked a little weird after all."

Cry lets out a sigh and drearily murmurs, "You mean, you think I might have gone psycho? I guess it explains why you wouldn't look at me anymore. And even when you did, you looked at me like I was going to kill you with the shovel or something."

"Geez, you're not a psycho, Cry," Pewdie counters that assumption with a frown. "It never even crossed my mind that you could be one. Or will be one. And besides, I know you won't kill me either."

"And how can you be sure of that?"

"Because I'm far too fabulous to be killed."

"Dude, I'm being _serious_."

"Well, isn't it obvious?" Pewdie sighs. "It's because I believe in you, Cry."

He's met with a few seconds of surprised silence after his words and he hears a rustle as Cry moves his head a little to look at him. Pewdie doesn't see the expression on the other's face because he's busy noticing the glow-in-the-dark star stickers plastered on the ceiling above the bed.

"Listen. There's… something I've been meaning to ask for a while," Cry murmurs, turning away from him to stare back at the ceiling. "It's been bugging me for weeks but… maybe you already know or something but you know you… you never once talked about the car crash."

"Of course I didn't," Pewdie easily says in a matter-of-factly tone. "There was no need to talk about it. We got out and we didn't get hurt. That was all that mattered."

"But aren't you…" Cry says uncertainly. "Aren't you _mad_? That I crashed it? That I lost it? I mean, didn't Bluey mean a lot to you?"

"Of course she did," Pewdie says emphatically and he can hear the sadness in his own voice. "If it weren't for that car, I wouldn't even survive a _day_ in this hell."

"So… you _were _mad?"

"I didn't _want _to be mad," Pewdie corrects him, aware that they're stepping onto sensitive ground. For the past few weeks, this topic was supposed to be something unmentionable between them, but now it seems that they are far too caught up in the moment in this quiet, peaceful atmosphere to stop. "But what's done is done. There really isn't any point in bringing it up anymore. It's not your fault after all. I mean, the last thing I want is for you to feel guilty about something that wasn't really your fault."

"W-Wait, lemme get this straight," Cry slurs this time not because of the alcohol in his system but because he sounds genuinely confused. "You purposely avoided mentioning the car because you didn't wantto make me feel…bad about myself?"

"I told you it wasn't a big deal," Pewdie says. At Cry's hesitation, he adds, "Look, I feel like I'm also to blame for causing that crash. I mean, I was being such a bully to you. I pushed you too hard. I shouldn't have done that and it was wrong of me. I know you don't want to talk about… about certain _things, _and I should respect that. So I'm sorry for what happened."

"_I _should be sorry," Cry's voice comes out very quiet that Pewdie barely hears it. His words sound small, scared and a little helpless. "I fucked up a couple of times. Like I did in that first raid. And then when we lost the car. I did stupid things that almost got us both killed."

"No, you are the one who kept us _going_," Pewdie points out fervently, suddenly deadly serious because he needs Cry to understand this. "You got us this far. You're the one who found that radio. You're good at picking up the best supplies that would help keep us alive. You stay up all night just to keep us safe. You're the one who brought us to this place. And you're a good navigator too. If weren't for you– if– if we never met, I would've just driven around in circles for weeks and eventually go fucking crazy. I wouldn't have made it out of those woods without you, man. I wouldn't have lasted this long if it weren't for you. You've done more good for this team than all the bad things combined."

After that passionate outburst, they both fall into a mutual silence for different reasons – because Pewdie feels a little embarrassed for saying all those things so intensely like that and Cry looks like he'd fallen speechless at his words. Despite this, their silence isn't like their earlier, awkward ones. Instead, it's a silence full of quiet contemplation. After a whole minute of stillness, Pewdie thinks Cry has drifted off to sleep but he's mistaken when the other man stirs and lets out a long sigh.

"You…" Cry murmurs, sounding as if he's struggling to find the right words to say. "You're a good guy, Pewds."

For the second time since Cry had thanked him aloud for pulling him out of the car, Pewdie finds himself a little flabbergasted at Cry's words because they hit him straight in the heart, filling it with an emotion that he can't describe. He's glad that the LED lantern doesn't illuminate the warm flush that's already spreading across his face.

He decides to cover up his embarrassment by scoffing dramatically and saying, "Of _course _I'm a good guy. That's what I keep _telling _everybody but people don't seem to see my goodness. Did you know that I did a random act of kindness by releasing an egg back into the wild? Like an actual duck egg. If that wasn't an act of kindness, then I don't know what is. Don't you think so too? Don't you agree with me? Eh, Cry? Are you–?"

When Pewdie gets no answer, he's suddenly aware that Cry is breathing slow and steadily beside him so when he turns his head, he finds that the other man had drifted off to sleep to the sound of his voice. He quietly watches Cry's chest rise and fall in accordance to his deep breathing and thinks about his outburst earlier on, about how Cry needs to understand how much he's done for them both. He hopes that the message had hit home because it certainly has done so in Pewdie's case and he's never felt this grateful to have Cry by his side all this time, to have Cry push him on and on even when Pewdie sometimes feels close to giving up. All they need to do is to keep this up, this constant reassurance that they keep it together until they reach salvation at last.

As he stares a little longer at his sleeping companion, Pewdie notices that one of Cry's arms is draped over his stomach and his other one is carelessly stretched out across the game board between them. His fingers are loosely curled inwards, almost resembling a fist.

Pewdie slowly reaches out and gently brushes his knuckles against Cry's fingers before he pulls back his arm and looks at the ceiling, at the glow-in-the-dark stars. About an hour later, after he falls asleep to Cry's slow, rhythmic breathing, the LED lamp sitting between them runs out of battery and blinks into darkness.

* * *

_(Dammit, Pewds. You're such a sweetie sometimes.)_

_I raised a couple of points in this chapter, particularly about the state of Pewdie's character and the fact that he, unlike Cry, still retains a bit of his humanity amidst the chaos of this apocalypse. I wanted Cry to acknowledge that in Pewds's suggestion that they clean the blood off the floors because he thinks it's "the only right thing to do after all".  
_

_At the same time, I thought that it was about time they have one of these more serious heart-to-heart talks. It's about time they both step up and address the state of their relationship and that it's not going so well lately. I also thought it's about time Cry brought up the unspeakable topic of their car crash and share his guilt about it. Finally, I wanted Pewds and Cry to not only realise how much they need each other in order to function as a good team, but also what they mean to one other on a more personal level. Why? Because I love character appreciation so I will write about it as much as I want._

_Feedback/reviews are most appreciated, as always. (How do you feel after ploughing through this monster chapter?)_


	8. Chapter 8

Happy Halloween, everyone. Special thanks to **CIAKat, AngstMuffin, LoryLily, Chameishida **and **doodlepie **for your comments for last chapter. I really appreciate the feedback. It's been a tough week for me, battling a spot of de-motivation to complete a new chapter in the time period of a week. The reviews really, really do help.

My summary for this one: Oh yes? Oh _no._

* * *

**08.**

The next two days goes by without much activity, not counting the morning where they wake up to the worst hangover and spend almost an hour hugging separate toilet bowls, regurgitating everything they consumed the night before. Cry can't remember the last time he got drunk or tipsy, nor has he felt so relaxed and at ease, wrapped up in the simple pleasure of playing games with friends. For the first time in a long time, he forgets about the crazy world outside the house, about the zombies and their escapes from certain death. He doesn't think about anything except the good food, the good rest, the good drink, the good game and having a good time.

That is, until he lies back in the dim glow of the lantern and stares blankly at the ceiling. He thinks about what he and Pewdie are now, what had become of them; remembers the look of shock on the other's face when he steps back from the dead zombies, dripping in blood and guts. He blames his alcohol-induced state for giving him the boldness to speak his own thoughts aloud and the next thing he knows, they pour out of him in an uncontrollable stream of raw and honest vulnerability, all of it for Pewdie to listen to.

And then there is Pewdie, who continues to astonish him with his actions, his way of thinking and his words. The moment when the other man asserts his belief in him, tells him how much Cry has done for them, Cry finds himself not knowing what to say, not knowing how to react. He merely falls into flabbergasted silence and feels some emotion that's indescribable in words swell tremendously in his chest, touching his heart. His throat tightens all of a sudden, restraining his voice and he barely manages to murmur out the only thing he can say to Pewdie. The only thing he knows to be certain and true about the other man.

From then on, he and Pewdie have been getting along really well after the night of their heart-to-heart talk. Cry notices that Pewdie seems more at ease with him now, no longer as wary and cautious of his words as he had been before. In return, Cry decides he will forgive any of Pewdie's antics and foibles because it's the least he can do to thank the other man for forgiving him for his mistakes and for reminding him of his own self-worth.

During those two days, Cry looks through a window on the side of the house which faces the front lawn and sees the light of the setting sun gild the rest of the housing estate in a golden-orange glow. It's a fairly large area, this square plot of urban land in the middle of grassy plains, lined with identical houses which are fashioned so close together that the only thing that acts as their only divider is a wooden fence separating each home. The only other indication of the houses' individual differences is the way each one decorates its own lawn or the number of cars parked in their driveways. About a couple of dozen zombies stagger in an almost drunken manner up and down the street of the neighbourhood that he and Pewdie are in. Cry can't discern how many there are but he knows that the longer they stay hidden from these creatures in this area, the more urgent it becomes that they leave the shelter of this house before they begin to draw unwanted attention.

It's a partly cloudy afternoon on the fifth day of their restful stay and Cry has been sitting quietly in his room, trying to scrape the dried crust of blood off the blade of his shovel. Just as he removes the last crumb, Pewdie bursts through the door in a frenzy, his hair flying wildly on his head before he bounces onto the bed, exclaiming, "Look what I found in the basement!"

He then brandishes a dusty, unopened packet of four AA batteries in the space between them.

Instantly, Cry's eyes widen and his heart quickens in shock and delight. "Oh my god," he says in disbelief as he seizes the packet like it might disappear before his eyes. It's funny how it's easy to find these things lying around in videogames than it is in real life. After searching for so long, it feels great to have finally found what they've been looking for. Or rather, it feels fucking _fantastic_.

"Pewds, you are a wizard," Cry huffs out in laughter, ecstatic as the other man at the find. He feels a sudden, wild urge to grab Pewdie and hug him senseless but he holds himself back by tearing the packet apart so he can take the battery cells out instead.

"Hah, of _course_ I am," Pewdie scoffs proudly in response, puffing his chest out. "And people say _I_ don't go and pick up enough items in my gameplays. There are actually a lot more batteries downstairs just so you know. We've got plenty to keep us going for a few months! So, come on then. What are you staring at those for? Where's that radio walkie-talkie thing? I think we've got more than enough for it to work now."

Cry quickly digs into his backpack and extracts the CB radio from one of its inner pouches, sliding open the battery compartment and slots the cells into the remaining gaps inside.

_Finally, _Cry thinks, feeling a wave of excitement rise in his chest so strongly that he almost can't breathe. This is it. We can finally call for help.

The moment he turns the knob to switch on the radio, the device beeps into life and he and Pewdie both simultaneously lean closer to it in mutual anticipation. They don't hear anything at first so Cry begins pressing random buttons and turning knobs with his fingers, trying every one of them out. It doesn't take too long to figure out what each button does and when Cry presses on the _Scan _button in particular, they wait and watch as the numbers on the screen flash from 1 to 40 as it searches for any active transmissions. They hear nothing but continuous white noise when Cry decides to manually scroll through each individual channel once automatic scanning doesn't result in anything.

"Say something," Pewdie suggests. "Maybe someone can pick up our message."

When Cry presses the button on the side of the radio which he's sure must be _Talk _button, the white noise stops and he says with a hopeful tone into the microphone, "Hello? Is anyone out there? Can anyone hear my voice? Hello?"

After he keeps doing this for another five minutes with no elicited response, Pewdie pulls the radio out of his hand and gives it a go, "H-h-how's it goin' bros?" he announces loudly like he's addressing the viewers of his videos. "My name is _Pewww_dieCry. And we're here stuck in a zombie apocalypse, so can someone get the fuck over here and save us already?"

Three minutes later, Cry wrestles the radio back because Pewdie's announcements begin to take on a not-so-serious nature ("'Ola? My name is Consuela and I'm a helpless cleaning lady with great, big, bouncy titties. If you would like my service, call back this number"). Stifling his laughter at Pewdie's ridiculous antics, Cry gets up and starts pacing around the room while surfing through each channel with a press of a button. When he still gets nothing and begins to feel increasingly dispirited, he decides to head outside.

"Try sticking it out the window," says Pewdie suddenly, referring to the framed window on the landing outside. He had been watching Cry pace around for five minutes as he searches in vain for an active signal and had followed him out of the room. Cry wants to tell him that this isn't the time to mess around but the other man cuts him off with, "Although it's pretty far out, I think I see some sort of radio tower somewhere in the distance, in that direction over there. See that? If there are still survivors out there in that town, they would think the same thing about calling for help using that, no?"

"I guess you're right," Cry hums, impressed by the notion.

He decides to try it out and holds the radio out of the gap in the framed window. After going through the same procedure again, he gets nothing but screeching, buzzing white noise so when he pulls back, he's fighting off his frustration. They _earned _this, he tells himself. They waited a long time for this moment so why isn't the radio working? No, no. This isn't the time to get mad. Let's just take a break and think about this. Now, what could be the problem?

Sighing, he leans back against the wall and thinks hard. Beside him, he feels Pewdie pry the radio out of his hand so he can tamper with it. Cry's gaze lands on the radio's antenna and a thought hits him, dissipating his initial disappointment.

"It isn't long enough," he points out in realisation, tapping the end of the rubber antenna – which is only about eight inches in length after all – with a finger and Pewdie nods enthusiastically, as if the thought too had occurred to him the same time that Cry had.

"Yeah, it makes sense," Pewdie says. "This thing looks like it can't cover more than three or four miles in radius. It makes sense that we can't seem to pick up any signal or send out our own. There's nobody around where we are. At least, nobody alive."

"That just means we've got to move on," Cry surmises. "It won't do us good to stay here when we finally got this thing working. We need to get to higher ground or something. Or go find a better, longer antenna to replace this one. Basically, we've got to keep moving until our radio picks up some sort of signal somewhere."

"Aw, and I was getting used to this place already," says Pewdie in a wistful voice, accompanying it with an overdramatic sigh. "It's been a good couple of days too. I've never felt any more relaxed than this."

"You do know we can't stay here forever, right?" Cry reminds him because he's not sure what Pewdie means when he's saying that.

The other man just waves him off good-naturedly and says, "Of course I do. Still, we _do _have to enjoy the moment while we can, Cry. Not just rest and recuperate so we can get ready to go the next day, right?"

Pewdie does make a fair point and it's surprising that the thought hadn't occurred to Cry since they got drunk a couple of nights ago. He almost feels a little ashamed for forgetting to enjoy the little things once in a while.

"Should we leave tomorrow?" says Cry tentatively. "Or do you want to stay a little longer?"

Pewdie's mouth twists into a thoughtful pout. "I don't see why not. I feel pumped enough to go actually. I mean, food is still going okay but I guess I can use up what we have and make packed meals or something for the road. It'll be a shame to waste it all."

Cry nods in acknowledgment and adds, "We should pack what we want to bring with us and have an early night. Make sure we get ready to go first thing tomorrow morning."

"Wow, it's like going on a school trip or something," Pewdie says with a grin, patting him lightly on the shoulder before heading towards the 'mini-kitchen'.

_More like a school trip back into hell,_ Cry can't help but point out silently as he watches Pewdie's form disappear behind the door.

When dawn breaks the following morning, they're up and ready to go, backpacks full of new supplies, some extra clothes, dried food and packed meals. There's a quiet chill in the air once they step outside the backyard and make their way towards the main road. However, they freeze in their tracks when they spot something on their intended path. A group of zombies are gathered together, gorging themselves on something that's lying on the side of the main road. In the faint dawn light, they can't see what it is that the creatures are eating but Cry spots one particular zombie wrestling a half-eaten human arm away from the others. He finds the crook of Pewdie's elbow and lightly pulls it and they back away from the busy group, eventually returning to the house through the sliding glass door.

"Should we wait until they're done?" Pewdie asks him as he peers through the lacy curtains covering the glass door.

"I don't want to linger around, knowing those things are awake out there," says Cry. "It looks like it's a no-go at this end. We should find another route. The streets outside must eventually lead out of the housing estate and back to that main road, right? We'll try that way. Let's check the front windows for zombies. We go when it looks safe."

The street they're on is relatively empty when he and Pewdie emerge through the front door of the house and look around. Nothing so much stirs or makes any sound except for the soft scraping of their boots against the pavement and their quiet, uneasy breathing.

"Where did all the zombies go?" Cry hears Pewdie whisper beside him, peering warily over his shoulder every five minutes or so.

"I think we saw them just now," Cry realises suddenly. "All of them must have wandered outside and attacked whoever was on that road. We should hurry before they start coming back."

They immediately follow a lane that turns around a corner and leads to another street lined with identical houses. It takes most of the morning to move up each row of houses, keeping out of sight of anything that moves, and Cry is astonished by the number of zombies – both dead and undead – scattered about the streets or blankly lounging around inside their homes. They're very fortunate to find that none of the zombies in these neighbourhoods are awake so Cry picks the best route through this lethargic undead crowd, keeping as much distance from each staggering body as they can, occasionally pausing and backing away when one of the creatures wanders too close to them. Most importantly, they keep silent and take their time to creep past them so for those few hours, they are invisible to the undead.

When he and Pewdie finally reach what they think is the ninth or tenth row of houses, they find the oddly empty lane blocked with a collection of wrecked cars piled on top of one another. Skid marks and blood trails stain the tarmac and concrete pavements, and there are mangled body remains lying sprawled over this pile like broken doll parts. It looks as if these cars had been in a mad scramble to get out of the estate fast and ended up colliding into each other. There doesn't seem to be any safe way across this mountain of shattered glass and scrapped metal to reach to the other side.

Just as Cry begins to devise another plan, he feels Pewdie pull his sleeve for attention and follows the latter's pointing finger towards one of the houses. The building in question looks more abandoned than the rest of its siblings because its white paint is peeling off, the front lawn is practically a mess of weeds, dried leaves and tall, wild grass, and the driveway is caked with enough brick dust, dirt and debris to show that no car had parked there in years. Furthermore, all the windows seem to be covered in newspaper, blocking any view into the interior of the house. The only thing which seems interesting enough to have caught Pewdie's attention is the rickety front door, which hangs slightly open as if someone had forgotten to shut it properly before they left.

"Are you crazy?" Cry hisses, staring at Pewdie, who shrugs with a sheepish smile in return.

"We could go through the back door of that house to reach the other side," Pewdie explains, trying to be as quiet as Cry. "I know this looks like the house from hell but it doesn't seem like we have any other choice, right? Besides, it looks far too dangerous to climb over those cars anyway."

"Well, we could always go through another house that doesn't look half as dangerous as this one," Cry points out.

"And wake up the zombies that could be inside?" Pewdie gasps in mock-horror. "You'd rather pick a perfectly, good habitable house than one that looks like no one's been inside for years? Now who's the crazy one here?"

"_Shh_– alright, _alright_," Cry huffs exasperatedly because they shouldn't even be talking out in the open like this. Their voices could easily attract attention, especially if they start bickering uncontrollably on the spot. Cry sighs, adjusting the shovel strap on his shoulder and says, "Just follow my lead and try not to scream at anything, okay? Close your eyes if you have to." He then turns and leads the way towards the abandoned house.

The front door emits an eerie _creak_ as Cry slowly pulls it open and a cold blast of air hits him, bringing with it the smell of dust, mould and mothballs in its wake. When they step inside, the only light source seems to come from the weak sunlight that's filtered through the newspaper plastered on the windows facing the street. He can just about make out a collapsed table in pieces on the floor next to the remains of a shattered lamp and a chair with ripped cushions. Dust and debris cover the floor while thick cobwebs drape over the peeling walls around them. Beyond this front room lies the rest of house in complete darkness. For a moment, Cry and Pewdie stand there in what little light remains from the outside and stare warily at the gloom before them.

"Okay," Pewdie's voice comes out as a squeak as he swallows nervously. "This place is pretty creepy."

"We'll be fine," Cry reassures him, pulling the door back in but leaving it hanging open as before so that a small needle of sunlight pierces the gloom of the house. He doesn't feel so comfortable being in a shut-in, derelict place like this so he pulls out his flashlight and flicks it on. "Come on," he says and takes a step into the darkness.

Apart from the front rooms, the rest of the place lies mostly bare and empty. There is a hole in the ceiling, its edges mottled with dry rot, and chunks of plaster litter the floor underneath it. They pass an empty doorframe with no door and find an old, worn-out teddy bear wearing what seems like a knight's helmet and a suit of armour sitting innocently in front of it, looking as if it had been waiting for them all this time. It's one of those souvenir teddy bears you can buy anywhere when holidaying overseas. Pewdie takes one look at it and kicks the damn thing away with his foot and it tumbles in a cloud of dust and vanishes into the darkness.

"I don't _trust_ you," he grumbles and turns to catch up to Cry.

When they reach the staircase, they find some sort of cupboard tucked underneath the stairs like the one in the _Harry Potter _books, its little door hanging open to reveal some things propped on the shelves inside. Tempted by the items, Cry immediately heads towards the cupboard to investigate, crouching inside the small space and begins to cautiously pick up each dusty object and study it in the glow of his flashlight in case some turn out to be useful for him to take.

"Are you serious, Cry?" he hears Pewdie's voice behind him as the latter shines his own light into the compartment, illuminating its dusty, dirt-caked interior. "It's an abandoned house. I don't think there's anything worth taking in here."

"It doesn't hurt to check," Cry shoots back but unfortunately for him, Pewdie's words prove to be true and that there is nothing here worth taking after all. The items turn out to be useless trinkets – little miniature figures and broken toys. He ducks out of the little room and straightens up and Pewdie shines his light onto his own face to show Cry a look of disapproval.

"You're not thinking of checking upstairs, are you?" Pewdie mutters with a roll of his eyes.

"What if I am?" Cry says.

"We've got enough supplies for now," Pewdie says, trying to sound reasonable. "You don't need to be this…uh–"

"Thorough?" Cry finishes for him.

"Yes, that," Pewdie nods with an exasperated sigh. "Come on, man. Let's just get the heck out of here."

As they pass the staircase and explore deeper into the house, Cry can feel the atmosphere become so uncomfortably thick and stuffy that he almost feels a little claustrophobic at the lack of ventilation in this place. He doesn't need to say this aloud because Pewdie, as always, beats him at mentioning the obvious first.

"I feel like I can't breathe in this place, Cry," Pewdie murmurs breathlessly beside him. Cry can't see his face because both their flashlights are directed in front of them but he is, however, able to make out Pewdie's form amidst the darkness. "Maybe this isn't a good idea after all," Pewdie rambles on nervously. "I was wrong. I mean, what was I _thinking_? This place is just creepy as fuck. It reminds me so much of that asylum in _Outlast._ Or any of those other horror games I played. Wish we brought a video camera just so we see in the dark. Maybe we should go back where we came from. Find some other way."

"We've come too far to turn back now," says Cry with a frown, trying to discern Pewdie's expression in the darkness. "Besides, I think this is the kitchen area, right? The back door should be around here by n– _Whoa!_"

He doesn't get to finish his words because his foot suddenly slides from underneath him and he falls forward, landing heavily on the ground on his hands and knees. Waves of pain sail up and down his limbs from the impact, paralysing him and making him collapse on his side with a loud, slippery _thud_. Blinking in shock at the glare of Pewdie's flashlight on his face, Cry realises he's lying on something cold and sticky and slippery. And Pewdie, the _bastard_, is standing above him, shamelessly braying with laughter at his fall, his voice piercing the thick, stale silence of the house. Immediately, Cry recovers, feeling ashamed and annoyed at what had happened to him. He notices that his cap, his flashlight – which must have turned itself off by accident when it hit the floor – as well as his shovel have all fallen out of his grasp and are lying somewhere on the ground around him.

"Oh my god, are you okay?" Pewdie asks above him as he tries to stifle his laughter. "Sorry, man. I shouldn't have laughed. That looked like it hurt. Are you alright? Did you sprain or break anything? Because that would be _bad_."

"No, I'm _fine_," Cry snaps, squinting a glare at the other as he struggles to shakily hoist himself onto his feet, waving Pewdie's offered hand away. "Just… get that fucking light out of my face, will you?"

"Sorry," the beam of light lowers from his eyes and falls onto the floor and for a moment, they both stare at it in stunned silence.

"There's blood on the floor," Pewdie points out the obvious because he's always been good like that. "_Eugh_, that's disgusting."

Despite the fact that his hands and knees are still thrumming in pain, Cry takes the opportunity to crouch and study what he had been lying on. The floor underneath them is actually made up of marble tiles – some of which are still intact, some are cracked and in pieces while others are missing entirely, leaving empty square-shaped gaps on the ground. The blood on these tiles seem to have mostly dried up but it still feels sticky and slippery to the touch. In the glow of Pewdie's flashlight, Cry can see on the bloody puddle a line like a skid mark where his foot had slipped on as well as his handprints and knees where they had touched the floor.

Cry suddenly wants to laugh out loud at the blatant, cruel irony of his life right now. He can't believe he'd been so careless not to look at where he was going. Of all the things to slip on, it had to be a pool of blood. He remembers laughing uncontrollably when Lee Everett, the protagonist from _The Walking Dead_ game, had slipped on a pool of blood like Cry himself had done.

"You sure you okay?" Pewdie asks again from above him. "If that's the case then let's go find the backdoor and get out. And this time, you should watch your step."

"Well, I'll keep that in mind," Cry mutters, straightening up and wiping his sticky, bloody palms on his pants in distaste. He suddenly remembers he'd dropped his items during the fall. "Swing your light around," Cry tells Pewdie and the other does. "Oh, there's my flashlight. I'll go get it and look around for my hat and shovel and then we'll go."

He leans down to pick up his flashlight, switching it on and a ball of light leaps out to illuminate his surroundings. Sweeping it across the floor, he finally spots his shovel some distance away from where he'd fallen down and steps over the pool of blood to go and retrieve it.

"Hey Cry?" It looks like Pewdie is crouching over the blood too, studying it with his flashlight. His voice sounds thoughtful as Cry leans down to pick up his shovel. "Isn't it weird that there's blood on the floor? I mean, who could've made–"

But Cry does not hear the rest of Pewdie's words. Because when he straightens up, the blade of his shovel scrapes loudly against the broken tiles and his light shines onto a shrivelled, skull-like face which springs out of the darkness and slams him onto the floor. The impact makes him drop his shovel, his glasses are gone from his face, and his flashlight flies out of his hand and spins far away and out of reach. He cries out in fear at its loss.

The thing on top of him feels far too skinny and dry and bony and _wrong _and he can hear it snarling above him, hear the clacking of teeth, feels it clawing at his face and neck with stick-like fingers, and he does what he can do to hold it back, to push it away from him. The worst part is that he's freaking out because he can't see anything in front of him, it's far too dark in here and _fuck, _where is the light, he can't _see, _he can't see_ anything, _that thing is going to bite me any second and I can't do anything about it I'm fighting this thing _blind _please help me please _help_ I'm scared I'm scared I'm so scared I can't see I'm blind in the dark I'm going to die I'm going to get bitten oh fuck oh _fuck_ why is this happening where the hell is_–_

* * *

Pewdie knows something is wrong the moment he sees Cry's flashlight fly out of his hand and hears a clatter of a shovel and a thud as something heavy hits the floor. He hears a familiar panicked yell, hears the snarls of something inhuman and quickly stands up from his crouch.

"Cry?" he says in alarm, sidestepping the pool of blood, races towards the noises and frantically shines his flashlight, trying to see what's happening. For a flash of a second, he's frozen in shock at the sight before him – at the sight of Cry, whose glasses are missing from his face, who is whimpering and thrashing wildly under something that used to be human but is now nothing but skin, bones and dry, peeling flesh. Only clumps of hair still remain on its head that has slowly eaten away, revealing flashes of yellowed skull underneath. Its face is the most terrible thing to look at. He catches a glimpse of thin and sallow cheekbones, the sunken milky eyeballs, the two gaping holes where its nose used to be and its blackened, rotten teeth.

When the beam of light hits them, Pewdie sees Cry's eyes widen in horror as the latter sees exactly what he's fighting against and a terrified sob escapes his lips. The noise seems to alert the creature and its bony jaw snaps open and lounges for Cry's neck and Cry fights back, desperately shoves the skull-like face away with his hands and his fingers dig into the sagging, flaking cheeks at the effort. As he struggles to hold it back, his wide, tearful eyes flicker over at him and Pewdie recognises the wild panic, the terror in that glance.

"_Pewds_!" Cry manages to yell out amidst his whimpering and gasping, amidst his struggles against this skeletal zombie that is trying to take a bite out of his face with its snapping jaws. "Get it– get it _off_ me! I can't – Fucking get it off! Pewds! Pewds, _please–_!"

Pewdie jerks out of his stupefied trance and tugs his crowbar free from where he'd tied it against his backpack, stepping closer towards them and feeling light-headed and dazed all of a sudden. In the darkness, he realises he's shaking so much and his thoughts have become an incoherent scramble in his head. He's shaking so much that he's fumbling with the items in his grasp, trying not to breathe too quickly, trying to hold back his panic, trying hard to stay focused.

But he realises in alarm that it is somehow much harder to balance his flashlight in one hand and swing a dangerous weapon onto a moving target with the other. It's hard because as he shines the light on the grappling bodies, as he lifts his crowbar, ready to swing it down, his vision suddenly doubles and he feels ready to collapse on the spot. Goddamn it, he's panicking, hesitating, gasping for breath – because Cry and the zombie are moving around too much and he's screaming in his head for them to _stop _it, stop moving, I can't see where I'm hitting, what if I hit Cry by mistake what if I hit him and he gets hurt what should I do, _no, _no just do it come on it's easy just swing the crowbar onto the zombie's head it's right there right _there_ Pewdie why are you not moving why are you just standing there fucking shaking don't panic don't pass out Pewdie because Cry needs you now keep it together oh fucking hell _do_ something Cry is just _there _you fucking idiot he's going to get bitten save him Pewds save him _now_ move damn you fucking _move _kill that thing kill it now kill it _kill it–_!

The thoughts screaming in his head are suddenly cut off when Cry manages to wrestle his legs underneath the zombie and pushes it off him using the feet he had planted onto its chest. The creature lets out a guttural croak of surprise as it is ripped away from its prey. When it lands on the floor in a disturbing clatter and snap of brittle bones, Cry scrambles up from the floor in a frenzy, snatches the crowbar out of Pewdie's sweaty hand and pounces onto the zombie, pinning it down with his knees.

The creature's head snaps up in attention, the swollen, milky eyeballs glistening revoltingly in the glow of the flashlight. Its horrible jaw swings opens, letting out another guttural croak, and before it has a chance to bite, Cry drives the sharp end of the crowbar down into that yawning gap with both hands until it pierces the back of its throat and bursts out of the soft part of its head to dig into the floor. He rips it back out only to stab it again through the eye sockets, making the eyeballs burst into jelly-like mush. He stabs it through what's left of its nose, its cheeks, its forehead, its jutting chin, its temples, everywhere he can reach, through every available piece of peeling skin it has left, until its terrible face is riddled with so many holes like those of a beehive and it's the most disgustingly, horrible thing that Pewdie has ever seen.

And Cry doesn't _stop_, doesn't stop even when the zombie gives a final shudder and lies still under him. He doesn't stop even when it's obvious that the creature is already long past dead. He's still stabbing the damn thing in the face with the crowbar, punching holes into it with a fierce viciousness unlike the one Pewdie witnessed with the two zombie siblings. Because there is no bloodlust in Cry's eyes as he strikes this time, there are only the flashes of wide-eyed, hysterical fear.

"C-Cry?" a breathy whisper rasps out of Pewdie's tightened throat. He's alarmed by how Cry doesn't seem to show any signs of stopping and cautiously edges his way nearer to the other, extending a shaky hand to reach for Cry's shoulder. "H-Hey, bro. It's okay now. You can stop. It's already dead, Cry–"

He jerks back in surprise when Cry suddenly turns and lashes out to him, violently smacking his hand away. He can't see Cry's face because his flashlight is directed on the floor but he does hear the metallic sound of the crowbar hitting the floor, sees Cry pushing himself onto his feet. The next thing he knows, Cry's blood-stained boots are storming towards him and Pewdie backs away in alarm, quickly lifting his flashlight up to shine it onto Cry's face and he's shocked to find it looming just inches away from his.

And Cry – Cry is _livid_, his face contorted with rage and his eyes, which are no longer hidden behind his glasses, are _blazing_. Blazing with an intensity that Pewdie has never seen before.

"_What the fuck was that_?" Cry all but screams it at his face. "_What the fuck were you doing just _standing_ there? You left me to fight on my own and you just _watched! _You just stood there and watched me about to get bitten! What the fuck is _wrong_ with you? Why didn't you push that thing off of me? Why didn't you kill it? Why did you just leave me there?"_

Pewdie is too shocked by what is happening. He feels intimidated by the lack of space between their faces, by the aggressive nature of Cry's yelling that he fumbles with his own words and weakly offers, "I… didn't leave you–"

"_Don't you fucking _lie_ to me_!" Cry roars. "_You stood there and didn't do fucking anything! You left me to deal with it on my own_! _Goddamn it! Just what is going _on_ with you?"_

"Look, I didn't–" Pewdie tries again and he really doesn't like this – this feeling as if he's being backed up against a wall like a trapped animal about to be torn into pieces. He wants to explain himself but Cry is making it so hard for him. The weight of his glare is pinning him down, making him feel so small and vulnerable and the harsh, aggressive words feel like bullets hitting him by the dozen, leaving him dazed and confused. He can't– he doesn't know what to do to defend himself from this.

"I didn't want to hit you by mistake," Pewdie's voice comes out small and uncertain at first so he forces them to become firm, strong and unafraid of Cry's wrath. "Y-You were moving around too much. I didn't know where to hit. I could've hit _you_ instead of the zombie."

"Bullshit," Cry snarls in response. "_That thing was on _top_ of me. You had a clear shot. You could've smashed it on the back of the head. You could've kicked it away. You could've pulled it off of me._ No. _No-no-no-_no. _You just _stood _there like a fucking _idiot_._"

"I was panicking," Pewdie whispers desperately and his voice seems to shrink the same way Pewdie is shrinking away from Cry. "I was panicking, man. I froze. I didn't know what to do. I was really scared." His words – his pathetic, stupid words do nothing but cause Cry's face darken.

"_Scared_?" Cry spits out bitterly, his blazing eyes boring into him without blinking. "_You _were scared?" And he raises his stained, dirty hand to the glow of the flashlight between them and Pewdie sees it shaking violently in the light.

"Do you _know_ how it feels like," Cry begins in a growl that gets louder with each emphatic word. "To fight against something that you can't even _see_? To not know when it's going to jump out and bite and _kill_ you? Do you _know_ how it feels like to lie helpless on the floor in the dark with no weapon or light in your hands and you _can't see a fucking thing in front of you_? And the _asshole_ you call your friend just stands over you and watches and lets it all happen? And I was yelling for you and you heard me, right? I was _yelling_ for you to help me but you didn't do anything. You just stood there with your fucking light and your fucking crowbar and did fucking nothing at _all_. Do you understand just how fucking _scared_ I was because of what _you _did?"

_I'm sorry_, Pewdie wants to say because he can imagine it. He can imagine the horror of what Cry had gone through, can imagine how betrayed he would feel if he had been in Cry's situation, calling out for help from the friend who stands back and does nothing. Goddamn it, Pewdie feels so, so awful for letting Cry experience that. Why did he hesitate? Why would he do that to Cry, who had done so much for them? Why did Pewdie leave him there to die?

Cry suddenly seizes his hand, the one that's holding the flashlight and jerks it upwards so that the beam of light illuminates both their faces, so that Cry can see the guilt in Pewdie's expression. He can feel Cry still shaking uncontrollably through his iron grip. They're standing so close together that he finds himself holding his own breath, his throat suddenly tightening with trapped words. Cry's scrutinizing glare proves too much for him to handle and he reluctantly averts his gaze away to escape it.

"You need to fucking wake up, man," Cry growls unkindly at him. "This isn't a videogame. There's no fucking restart button. If you die, you really _die_. If I hadn't gotten lucky and pushed that thing off of me in time, I would've been bitten, I would've turned and attacked you. It'll be game over for the both of us. And everything that we'd gone through would've been for _nothing_. I'd told you before already. Don't get distracted. Don't you fucking hesitate. You do what you gotta do and do it _fast_ because this is how the world works right now, Pewds. We're not hiding anymore. We have to attack first. No one is going to wait for you to get your shit together. You either act now or get killed. So the next time something comes out and jumps on you, you better make the right fucking choice."

And with one hard tug, Cry roughly pulls the flashlight out of his hand and steps back from him, turning to walk away and Pewdie feels a stab of fear in his chest, thinks for a horrifying second that Cry is going to leave him here in the dark.

_Cry, _Pewdie wants to call out but his voice keeps dying in his throat. His body is shaking uncontrollably again, not in fear or anger, but in helplessness. _I get it now. I'm awake now. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Don't leave me here. Please. Please, Cry. I'm so sorry._

But he then sees Cry pause in his tracks, as if a thought just occurred to him, and the other man turns back to look at Pewdie.

"You told me before that you believe in me," Cry says solemnly, his gaze hard and hurtful on him. "But after what happened just now, I can't say the same thing about you, Pewds."

The words feel like a hard punch in the gut, leaving him winded for breath, and Pewdie is surprised by how much they hurt him inside, how much they seem to pierce into his chest and rip his insides out, leaving a gaping hole for his guilt and shame to fill in. The words are worse than all of Cry's screams and curses combined because there is so much grim disappointment directed towards him and Pewdie doesn't know – god, he doesn't know what to say to that. It is like all the words and counterarguments that are ready at hand had vanished from that verbal blow, leaving him hollow and wounded inside.

A couple of nights ago, he and Cry had opened up to each other. Pewdie had told the other man of his worth, about how important he was to their group, about the things he'd done to keep them both alive. All of the good deeds that Pewdie had recognised in Cry – all of what they'd gone through – would have been for nothing if Cry had gotten killed because of Pewdie's own carelessness. Pewdie doesn't know if there is any kind of apology that can fix this now – this damage that has blown a hole in their relationship. Realising all this, there is nothing he can do but hang his head in shame.

Pewdie doesn't move from his spot as he watches Cry turn away from him with his flashlight, leaving him in the darkness. He watches in a quiet, subdued manner as Cry retrieves his glasses, his cap, his shovel and his own flashlight before the latter straightens up. Just as Cry pauses to readjust the strap of his shovel, he suddenly tenses on the spot like a deer in headlights. Alarmed by the reaction, Pewdie does the decent thing and scurries closer towards the light, straining his ears to listen.

_What is it_? He wants to say aloud because Cry hasn't moved for a while. They then hear a faint sound like sudden bursts of noise coming from outside, somewhere in the distance. About a second later, a car alarm suddenly goes off, wailing a continuous distressing sound in the air.

Cry's gaze meet his from under his cap and they're serious and business-like once more. "We've got to go," he says and there's no anger or disappointment or bitterness in his tone. At least, not now anyway – not when a new situation has arisen for them to deal with. Loud noises outside only mean one thing after all – the rest of the zombies are waking up. Soon, the undead creatures will be wandering actively around the area, their hunter instincts up and functioning, and once they sense potential prey, it's astonishing how fast they begin to move, how many of them can gather together in just a few seconds.

Pewdie hurries after Cry once he retrieves his flashlight from the other and picks up his crowbar from the floor, next to the dead zombie's mutilated face. It takes another few more paces through the gloom until they reach a room with the boarded-up back door located next to another newspaper-covered window.

"Crowbar," Cry says curtly, holding out an open palm and Pewdie obediently hands it to him without question. Normally, Pewdie gets the honour of smashing things to pieces with the crowbar but he doesn't complain about it when that privilege goes to Cry this time. Pewdie isn't in the mood to smash or do anything right now anyway. He feels drained, too guilt-ridden and ashamed of himself to do anything.

He hangs back almost timidly, beaming his light onto the boarded door and lets Cry pry off the wooden planks. Once the last plank of wood breaks free and lands with a _thunk _on the floor, Cry tries the doorknob and it doesn't so much budge. When he suddenly rams his shoulder against it, Pewdie flinches at the loud sound as the door shudders against its frame.

"Give me a hand here," Cry says simply without glancing back at Pewdie.

It takes three forceful collisions before they feel the door give away and they stumble out of the gloom and darkness into open sunlight, an overgrown backyard and the continuous wailing sound of the car alarm somewhere in the far distance behind them. Pewdie blinks in the midday sunshine, trying to adjust his vision. He's relieved that they're finally out of that horrible, stuffy house and catching their breath of fresh air.

He sees Cry straighten up and motion towards something before them, "We made it."

Pewdie peers over the other man's shoulder and sees no more rows of houses before them, no more streets and lawns and cars parked in driveways. Instead, they have reached the end of the housing estate where the wild backyard they're in faces nothing more than plain, even grasslands. Somewhere in the distance ahead of them is the town they are heading towards, its buildings layered in dust and heat waves, and far to their right is the main road which will lead them to it.

"…Good job, Cry," Pewdie's voice finally returns to him, sounding small and a little uncertain, and he hopes that his praise can do something to initiate some mutual communication between them.

But Cry merely turns away as if he hadn't heard Pewdie at all, leaves behind the overgrown backyard and its abandoned house and heads towards the main road without so much as a backwards glance at him.

* * *

_(Oh no? Oh_ hell_ yes.)  
_

Wow, I wonder how you all felt as you were romping through all that action, felt Cry's fear and Pewdie's panic, shrivel back at Cry's rage and felt low by Pewds's remorse. Was it intense? Exciting?

I notice that every new chapter becomes a new challenge for me because it becomes even more difficult as time goes by. Therefore, your reviews/comments/feedback are very much appreciated. I'd be thrilled to hear what you felt about this chapter, what you liked about it or this story so far, what you think of Pewds and Cry's characters as they slowly grow, whether you caught on some of their videogame references from this chapter or in the previous ones ("'Ola, I am Consuela", "I don't trust you!" to the teddy bear with the knight's helmet, etc.) or even some of their gameplay habits ("[Cry] We've got enough supplies for now...you don't need to be this...uh-" "Thorough?") or maybe even what do you think will happen to them next. Also, I'd love to talk with my readers about this story once in a while so feel free to drop me a review/PM.

I wouldn't have gone this far without your support after all. So thank you, readers. Thank you all.

STAY TUNED FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER COMING YOUR WAY SOON NEXT WEEK OH GOD WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN TO THESE BOYS GUYS


	9. Chapter 9

Thank you for patiently waiting, everyone. I did say this chapter should be up a week ago but as I've mentioned before, it's becoming increasingly difficult to write each new chapter within a couple of days. On the bright side though, this fic has reached its three-month anniversary and this is a big deal for me because I spent the last 90 or so days thinking, planning, writing, _breathing_ this story. Wowzers.

Much love and gratitude to the reviews for the previous chapter, with special thanks to **CIAKat **and **AngstMuffin** for mentioning your appreciation at the amount of effort I put in my writing. I really can't thank you enough. Only that you all continue to stick around and follow the journey that these two boys are going through.

Here's another 12K+ monster chapter. If you catch some obvious game references, here's a hurrah for you, dearies. So sit back, imagine, and indulge yourselves.

* * *

**09.**

Cry has never felt so glad to leave the darkness of that abandoned building, to leave behind the suburban houses and pavements of the housing estate, to escape one more near-death experience at the hands of another zombie. But his deep relief doesn't surpass the anger he feels towards Pewdie.

He already knows that Pewdie is not entirely helpless, that he is a quick-thinker and had gotten them both out of some tight spots before, had pulled him out of their wrecked car when Cry couldn't save himself. He knows that Pewdie should be capable of thinking amidst his panic and to react fast when either of them are in danger. He knows that. He's _seen _it happen before.

What had transpired in that abandoned house was something else because none of the traits that Pewdie has were present during that last zombie attack. Instead, Pewdie had stood still and hesitated, had reacted too slowly, not seeming to have grasped the urgency of that life-threatening situation. He would then dare blame his own panic and fear as the reason for his hesitation even though it is Cry who is the one at a disadvantage here, who is defenceless and fighting desperately for his life. In the end, it was Cry, himself, who had to save his own skin. It is exactly this that Cry feels so angry towards the other man.

Time passes while they march alongside the main road to town and Cry starts to feel mentally tired after that violent outburst of his in the house and its continuing wake after they leave it. Soon, that anger finally simmers down a little but not without leaving some room for disappointment to settle in and disappointment, as he soon finds out, feels so much worse to him than any kind of anger. He feels its prickly thorns dig deep inside him and he's hurt in the aftermath. He's hurt because of Pewdie, because of the other man's heartfelt words many nights before, because of his failure to save him.

Cry doesn't know what he wants to do anymore, what to believe in anymore. He doesn't know what he wants to do with Pewdie either. Or perhaps it's better to say that he doesn't _care_. He doesn't care if he leaves the other behind or whether Pewdie continues to follow him. All he's intent on doing is to march forwards towards the town ahead which is so far yet still within reach. He wants to find a signal on his radio and call for help. Wants someone to come and get them both out of this hellhole so that they don't need to deal with this any longer.

He hasn't looked back to check on Pewdie ever since they got out of the abandoned house about an hour ago but he can hear the other man's timid footsteps and the shuffling sounds of his backpack behind him. The glum silence between them feels unnatural because Cry is used to hearing Pewdie's chattering while they walk but he does his best to ignore this uncomfortable tension by telling himself that he doesn't care anymore. He's determined to look forward and focus on keeping a wary eye out for zombies who might be wandering across their path instead. On the other side of the road, he spots another cluster of houses – another suburban housing estate no doubt – and the faint, boxy shapes of the town buildings far, far ahead.

Around him, the grass stalks quietly stir as a cool breeze rustles past now and then. Most of the time though, the air feels uncomfortably warm and muggy and when Cry glances up at the sky, he sees that it has gone grey. The morning sun which they had watched rising in the suburban neighbourhood is now hiding behind a fleecy sheet of dull, dark clouds.

Half an hour drags by and Cry watches the second housing estate from the other side of the road edge nearer to their reach. Overhead, the clouds above seemed to have blackened with time, making the air feel heavy and damp. He feels a buzz of apprehension build in the atmosphere around him as he takes one step after another. When he pulls off his cap, he finds his forehead and the inside of his hat damp with sweat.

Another ten minutes pass by and the ominous clouds seem to lower, darkening even more, and it is not long before Cry hears the quiet rumbling of distant thunder and feels a warm drop of water hit his flushed cheek. He almost startles at the sudden contact.

This is not good, he thinks as he quickens his walking pace. The last thing he wants is for them to get caught in the middle of what is sure to be a thunderstorm. They have to go find shelter before the clouds break but there is nowhere that's near enough to run towards except the housing estate that lies opposite. Cry doesn't want to go into another house and deal with the zombies that he's sure are there. There has to some other place they can use just for a couple of hours, just so the storm can pass.

By the time he thinks that, the rain begins to fall – the thick, fat individual drops splashing onto the grass turn into a steady shower of water which begins to grow in intensity a few seconds later. Cry feels them pelting on his form like bullets and automatically breaks into a run and crosses the road to reach the housing estate on the other side. Raindrops splatter onto the lens of his glasses and he squints at each building, searches for some sort of ridge that would be ideal enough for them to shelter under. Damn it, he feels his hair getting plastered onto his forehead and he can't see–

He ducks into a backyard of a nearby house and stops in his tracks when he sees a couple of zombies clawing at the glass of the back windows, active from the noise of the rain and thunder outside. He doesn't feel comfortable being around them so he turns tail and knocks straight into a rain-soaked Pewdie who had been following close behind him all this time. The other man emits a surprised squawk at the sudden contact and immediately backs away from him as if he had been electrocuted.

Rumbling thunder crashes overhead, making them both bristle slightly. Cry can feel its vibrations from under the damp grass he's standing on. He's halfway to becoming soaked to the skin. Dammit, they need to find shelter but where–?

When he runs back out and pauses by the main road to clear his frustrated thoughts, his gaze falls onto an edifice that is not quite part of the housing estate but is located just next to it. Through the watery sleet of rain, he makes out tall, wooden spires and an arch curving over a doorway, stained-glass rose windows and a large cross propped atop its triangular roof. A local church. Sanctuary.

That'll do, Cry thinks.

He races through the wet grass, battling through the pelting rain, and ducks under the wooden arch that looms over the entrance to the building, sensing Pewdie following behind him. Cry immediately pushes the heavy doors open and they both slip inside.

Once the doors thud shut, it's dark, silent and cold inside the church. Cry shivers at the temperature, shaking the water from his hair and clothes, and pulls out his flashlight, flicking it on. A few seconds later, another beam of light leaps from Pewdie's own flashlight to join his. The twin beams sweep over a stone font decorated with cherubs in front of them, absent of its holy water, and he and Pewdie cautiously creep past it to slip through another set of doors into the nave of the building. Their footsteps make muffled thumps on the carpeted floor, eerily loud even in this heavy silence. Above them, they can hear the rain pitter-pattering on the roof. Another rumble of thunder growls from outside the building.

Almost every corner of the nave seems to be bathed in shadows and the only light apart from the flashlights, however dim it is, comes through the stained glass windows on each side of the wall. There's also a thick, heavy air filled with the faint smell of incense and wood. Pillars flank the multiple rows of wooden pews on either side of the walkway, all of which face the couple of steps that leads to an altar with a cross set onto a communion table. A speaker's podium stands on one side.

Cry shines his light over the pews and finds a couple of packets of white candles on one of the seats near a pillar. He instantly goes over and grabs them, dumping some into Pewdie's unsuspecting arms before he murmurs, "Check the perimeter for zombies. Don't go anywhere else. Don't open any doors. When it's clear, light these candles up. Put them on every corner back here. I'll put some in the front."

They're lucky once again to find nothing living or undead in the hall with them so it takes a little over five minutes to set all the lit candles around the corners until the interior of the church is filled with the warm orange glow of candlelight. As Cry walks back to the centre of the walkway, he notices the magnificent stained glass panels behind the altar painted with numerous religious illustrations and symbols. In the candlelight, what was once a hall of sinister shadows suddenly turns itself into a haven of warm, comforting radiance. Cry can't help but feel strangely safe and secure in this place.

He settles himself onto one of the pews in the middle of the walkway, puts down his shovel and peels off the first two layers of his wet clothes, watching the rainwater drip onto the carpet. After pulling on his spare shirts from his backpack, he wraps himself up in a bright yellow camping blanket before settling back in his seat and blows into his clasped hands, trying to regain some warmth.

"Um…" he's almost surprised when he realises that Pewdie is still with him. The other man had slipped into the pew behind his and is holding out a Tupperware container of their cooked meal and a plastic fork to him. Cry takes it without looking at him and faces the front, immediately tucking into his food. It's cold but tastes rather good and he gobbles the whole thing up in minutes.

When he finishes, he sets the container aside and lies down the length of the pew, muttering over his shoulder to Pewdie, whom he can hear is still quietly eating his own meal, "Keep an eye out, will you?" He then rolls over and shuts his eyes and tries to drift into unconsciousness to the sound of the pattering rain overhead.

He's not sure how long time passes as he sleeps but when he opens his eyes, it's still cold and the church looks darker than before because night time had arrived. He can see that it is pitch black outside and that the glass panels of the stained windows are dotted with trickling raindrops.

Cry slowly sits up on the pew, feeling cold and stiff under his blanket, and looks around for Pewdie, whom he finds isn't in the bench behind him. He finally spots him on the opposite side of the walkway, a few rows closer to the front, facing the altar. From the side, Cry can see him sitting silently in his seat, his shoulders hunched forward, his head bent down and his hands clasped together in front of him, almost touching the tip of his nose. His eyes are closed and he is breathing slowly and steadily, as if he is asleep.

Cry knows for a fact that the other is not, in fact, sleeping at all. In the candlelight, it's a little bizarre to see this serene yet remarkable sight of Pewdie praying in a church. But Cry somewhat understands the motivation for it. He knows that in hard times like these, in times when one faces their most primal fears, they tend to fall back on their most fundamental faith. It makes sense that humanity would go and seek guidance from religious and spiritual means when all else had failed, when there is no one left to save them. What better way to pray for help and guidance than in a house of God itself?

Cry isn't quite sure about his faith or his belief in anything right now, whether it is in the worldly or the divine. But he does know that there is something wonderfully peaceful and pleasantly alleviating about watching someone bent down in prayer. His heart, which has been torn with fear and panic, anger and betrayal for the past few hours, feels lightened once more. He breathes a sigh, lies back on his seat and his eyes flutter closed.

* * *

Pewdie isn't normally like this. He isn't one to let others upset him to the point where he feels low about himself. He usually brushes off a harsh scolding or a snappy remark with a witty phrase or a snorting scoff and eases his way back to his usual tenor. But it's different this time. He knows he's done something tremendously wrong and he doesn't know how to make it better. Pewdie knows that Cry is still mad at him, sees it in the way the other man never once looked back at him as they trudge down the road to town.

So he trails behind him, as silent and subdued as a shadow, or perhaps as a wounded dog, staring wistfully at the grassy ground before him, his mouth clamped shut because he'd lost his voice again when the other man ignored his words of praise. He makes sure that he's always a few paces behind Cry, whom he treats like a living bomb about to go off at any second. He even jumps back from their sudden contact when Cry accidentally runs into him in the rain, and once they settle down in their individual pews in the church, he avoids the other man's eyes when he hands over one of their packed meals.

After Cry finishes his food, Pewdie watches him lie down and mutter something about keeping watch before the other man rolls over and falls asleep. Pewdie does exactly that, quietly finishing his meal before he puts the container aside and stares up at the domed ceiling, at the stained glass windows, at the altar, and occasionally at Cry's unmoving form sprawled across the length of the pew in front of him.

Hours pass by in thick, heavy silence as Pewdie stays still in his seat, letting rainwater drip off his sopping hair and listens to the storm raging outside, watches as the sky darkens into blackness and the candles lighting around the church begin to shrink. As he basks in this silence and in the meditative atmosphere of the church, his mind becomes clear and active with thoughts. He thinks back to that incident in the abandoned house, to his panic and his hesitation, to his failure to save Cry from the zombie, to the look of disappointment on Cry's face. To his hurtful words.

Except this time, Pewdie reflects on the incident in a more rational light because he wants to make some _sense_ of it, wants to see whether that zombie attack could have been avoided. He imagines alternative scenarios where they decide not to enter the abandoned house and search for another route out of the estate. He imagines a possible scenario where it is Pewdie who slips on the blood on the floor and gets attacked instead of Cry. He imagines another situation where he reacts fast to tear the zombie off of Cry but not fast enough to stop it from biting the other. He imagines having to deal with a bitten Cry who slowly dies and returns as one of the undead. Or perhaps, a Cry who dies and doesn't come back at all.

And like a slap in the face, for once this possibility hits him hard and he's taken aback by how ignorant he had been all these months, ignorant of how fragile their lives actually are, how every second poses a new danger for them and it's never certain that either of them could make out of it alive. He's appalled by the fact that never once had the possibility of Cry _dying_, of losing Cry, ever crossed his mind. He had expected too much of their team, believing that their staying together becomes the only factor for their prolonged survival. Except how can that still be the case if Cry gets killed because of Pewdie's own carelessness?

Whatever alternative scenario Pewdie goes over in his head, one thing remains consistent. If Cry dies, Pewdie doesn't know what he would do next, doesn't know where he can go. Cry had always been his compass for these past few months, leading him through danger to get to safer ground. If he loses Cry, he will end up getting lost again, lost and alone, and he doesn't think he will be able to go any further if that happens, doubts he'll survive that long trying to deal with his loss.

And this scares him inside. It scares the hell out of him, this possibility of losing Cry, of being alone without him. For once, it doesn't matter what Cry thinks of him now, how angry the other man feels towards him, how guilty Pewdie feels for failing Cry. The important thing now is to keep Cry _safe_ because Pewdie needs him more than ever even if the other man doesn't. Pewdie needs to step up, to stay on guard and look after Cry just as Cry had done for them both. If he wants to make sure he doesn't screw up next time, he has to be certain that he has the strength for it, that he is up for the job, that he's brave and quick enough to handle it.

When he recalls back the events which have led them here, the many coincidental and fortunate situations where they had escaped death unscathed or found some form of hope that kept them going, he's grateful for all that. Grateful at just how amazingly _lucky_ they have been to reach this far. Grateful that perhaps some unseen force out there had been giving them these miraculous chances to continue living for as long as they can. He wants to express his heartfelt thanks for their good fortune because it makes sense to do so here in this place of worship. It's one of the things that he knows which still means something in this crumbling world of theirs – his faith in the thought that they're going to make it in the end.

He feels a little uncomfortable doing it behind Cry's pew so he moves to one a few rows in the front and faces the altar, the cross on the communion table and the beautiful stained glass windows. He puts his hands together and bends his head down, closes his eyes and prays. Prays for guidance and safety. Prays to be brave. Prays that there is someone still out there to come and save them. Prays that they reach a light in this dark and hopeless world. Prays for the welfare of his family and friends, for Marzia and their dogs. Prays for Cry and for Cry to be safe, to stay alive, for him to stay strong. He prays for Cry's forgiveness.

And he stays like that, unmoving and silent, in that meditative state for hours on end, bathed in the church's numinous atmosphere until the last of the candles burns itself out and the hall fades into darkness. Until he slumps back into his seat, his body exhausted but his mind at rest.

When he wakes and sits up, his neck feels stiff and uncomfortable and his arm is numb with pins and needles. There's a blanket which has just fallen off his shoulders that he's sure wasn't there the night before and wonders for a second whether it might have been Cry who had done this. He warily peeks over his shoulder to see but finds that the pews behind him are empty and that there is no one in sight.

The flash of panic that comes with this discovery fully wakes him up from his grogginess and Pewdie scrambles off his bench and cautiously makes his way to the back with a heavy heart full of dread. He sees his backpack perched on one of the pews and a wrinkled piece of paper torn from a notebook lying underneath his crowbar. He quickly snatches the paper up, almost tearing it.

_Be back soon, _the note reads in Cry's handwriting.

Pewdie stares at it for a few seconds, debating on whether or not the message speaks the truth before he decides that it must be – because why would Cry bother leaving him a note about his return if he planned on leaving him anyway?

He slumps back against the pew with newfound relief, absent-mindedly smoothing the wrinkles from Cry's note, and stares ahead, suddenly noticing his surroundings. It is morning now and sunlight filters through the stained glass windows on every side of the nave, lighting up the rows of pews, the pillars, the ceiling above him and the altar. Although the interior of a church may look wonderfully pleasant under the glow of candlelight, it still doesn't compare to how breath-taking it looks illuminated by the golden rays of the sun.

Pewdie decides to be patient and wait for Cry to come back but soon becomes restless after two minutes. His mind suddenly wakes up, forming questions that cross his mind in an almost frenzying manner. Where did Cry go exactly? How long had he been gone? What could he possibly be doing? Why didn't Cry wake him up to get Pewdie to join him? After all, they always do everything together for safety reasons. What if Cry runs into trouble and Pewdie isn't there to save him? Shouldn't Cry be back by now? Shouldn't Pewdie be out looking for him? Yes, maybe I should go and check up on him just in case. Even if he ends up yelling at me again, at least I know he's okay. Yeah, I should go do that. I think that's a good idea. Alright, here we go.

He stuffs the note into his pocket, picks up his crowbar and begins to explore the rest of the nave, tries to guess which way Cry could have gone. Perhaps he went upstairs to check for supplies? Maybe he went outside? Where should Pewdie go first?

After he treads up the steps to the altar, he almost trips over a fold in the thick red carpet. Dismissing this, he sees two doors on either side of the wall before him, almost wedged underneath the stained glass windows, making them unnoticeable at first glance. Pewdie stands by the communion table, flicking his eyes from left to right and back as he decides on which door to choose.

_Map? _He calls, intending to ask for some help, and realises he'd left both road map and flashlight in his bag back on the pew. He only has his crowbar with him so he lifts it up to stare at it and hesitantly asks, "Which door should I pick?"

The crowbar remains silent and still in his hand and Pewdie gives it an indignant shake for its lack of cooperation. In the end though, he finally decides to pick the door on the right. He passes the communion table and makes his way there, grasps the doorknob and eases it open.

On the other side of the door, he finds what looks like an office inside, its windows shut and covered with thick black blinds to block out the sun, throwing the whole room into dark shadow. He can make out a desk and chair, a few cabinets, a wardrobe and some clerical clothing hung on a coat hanger. He also discerns a human-like figure standing by the desk with their back to him.

_Cry_? Pewdie wants to call out in confusion. Why would Cry be scavenging for supplies in the dark, without a flashlight? He takes a step into the office and the weight of his foot makes the wooden floorboards groan loudly in protest.

Pewdie freezes on the spot at the unexpected noise, unable to help himself. Before him, the humanoid shadow cocks its head, noticing the sound as well, and turns around and Pewdie realises it isn't Cry at all. At least, that's what he believes because he's sure Cry doesn't go around wearing what looks like a priest's cassock.

Pewdie takes a step back, unsure of who this mysterious figure is.

Until the shadow begins to shuffle towards him, its movements clumsy and unnatural, and Pewdie backs away in horror, feeling his heart begin to pound in his chest. This time, he's sure this isn't Cry or a random living person either. He had been stupid to carelessly open the door like that. Now, it's too late to reach for it, too late to reach out to pull the door shut because the dark figure is already staggering closer towards him, close enough for Pewdie to make out its features.

It's a priest, or what used to be a priest. Its once handsome face is now pale and twisted and ugly, eyes blank and mouth lolling open. A lump of its head is gone on the left side and below that, there's also a horrible wound on the side of its neck under its left ear. A chunk of flesh had been torn out, leaving a gaping hole which exposes the interior workings of its throat and the thick trail of dried blood which had gushed out of that gap had stained its clerical collar red.

It doesn't seem to have fully woken up yet but it's still staggering forward, getting closer towards the open door and Pewdie continues to back away slowly, panic quickly rising in his throat with each drawn breath. He wonders where the hell could Cry be and whether he is coming back any time soon. He also thinks, _what do I do? What do I do? What do I _do?

Once the zombie steps in front of the doorframe, its weight makes the floorboard underneath its feet emit a groan. Pewdie sees its head jerk from side to side in confusion and realises that the zombie had only staggered forward because it had been attracted to the sound of the floorboard creaking. He instantly recognises his chance to escape its attention. If Pewdie continues to remain quiet, he can just sneak backwards and grab his bag and leave the church without alerting the creature. He can try to find Cry later. Right now, he needs to get out and fast.

But Pewdie doesn't dare avert his gaze from the zombie because he's terrified at the thought that if he turns his back on it, it will jump on him once he isn't looking. So he continues to retreat slowly, making sure his footfalls are muffled by the carpet and keeps watching the undead priest, ready to freeze if the creature starts turning to his direction.

And then his back bumps into something – oh shi– _no,_ he had backed away straight into the communion table which turns out to be unstable. The impact makes said table wobble with an audible _thunk _against the floor and the cross shifts slightly from the momentum, its circular base scraping against the wooden surface.

_Oh fff_–, despite the slightly ridiculous notion, Pewdie has to bite his lip to stop himself from swearing aloud or inwardly in his mind. Instead, he focuses on holding his breath and not moving, his back pressing against the table.

No, no, _no, _he thinks as his panic continues to is not _happening_.

But the noise, however miniscule it is, has already drawn the zombie's attention on him. Pewdie sees its head move towards the sound and it begins to shuffle forward once more, passing through the doorframe to fully step into the altar. The sunlight illuminates its twisted face, its pale eyes and the dried blood staining its clerical clothes. Pewdie imagines that lolling mouth opening to rip a chunk of flesh out of him and unconsciously shivers in response.

He needs to get out of here and fast. He is so tempted to scream aloud, so tempted to just make a run for it but the knowledge that doing either of these things will kill him stops him from acting them out. So he forces himself to calm down, to hold back that feeling of panic, and edge his way around the table and down the altar steps.

Come on, Pewds, he coaxes himself. You can do this. Keep your eye on the zombie. Yes, I know it's getting closer but that's only because it's curious of the sound of the table. We just need to get away from that fuc– that _table _and grab the bag and get the heck out of here. Come on. Don't be scared. Don't panic. Be like Cry (Cry, where _are_ you?). You can do this, man. You can do this.

His attempt at self-encouragement helps and he slowly sidles around the table, tracing its edges with one hand until he gets to the other side, until the width of the table separates him and the zombie apart. He continues to watch the creature approach as he backs away slowly, drags his foot one at a time across the carpet–

And the heel of his boot catches that stupid fold, that same fold on the carpet he had almost tripped over earlier, except that this time he _does _stumble from it and when he flails his arms about to regain his balance, his stupid mouth blurts out, "_Fuck_!" and his voice echoes around the room, resonating off the walls in a chorus of repetitive curses.

And he knows that he's royally fucked indeed.

He sees the zombie's head jerk towards his voice, thinks he sees something change in the zombie's face and the next thing he knows, it transforms from a passive, sleep-walking creature to an all-out terrifying beast when it suddenly vaults itself towards him with an ugly, guttural snarl. Pewdie manages to react to that sudden, violent movement by flinching and letting out a frightened whimper, believing for one second that this is the end of the line for him.

But the zombie's leap is cut short when it crashes into the table separating them, the impact making the structure wobble precariously on the carpet and the momentum knocks the cross down but is not yet powerful enough to make the whole table fall over.

For that flash of a second, Pewdie has enough time to think wildly in his panic, to ask himself, _what should I do?_ At first, he's aware that he just wants to run away, god he wants to run away so badly but he's afraid that his footsteps will only make the creature latch onto his trail, make it chase him until he is caught. _Dammit. What should I _do? He asks himself again and that's when he realises that he's been gripping his crowbar in one hand all along, that he had forgotten about the weapon he always brings with him out of habit thanks to Cry's insistence.

But that flash of a second passes and the zombie, having heard his whimpering voice, seems to have recognised the table obstructing its path and begins to madly scramble on top of it in order to reach for him. When its arm shoots out to grab him, that's when Pewdie strikes, yelping as he swings his crowbar clumsily with both hands, aiming for its head–

And _misses_. But the curved end of the crowbar flies into the hole on the side of its neck instead, colliding into it, making the zombie's head jerk sideways on impact. Pewdie quickly tries to pull the crowbar back and take another swing at it but when his efforts drag the creature closer towards him, he realises that the stupid thing is stuck into the zombie's throat. He pushes back instantly, sees that the curved end of his crowbar had latched onto the exposed tendons inside its throat, stretching them grotesquely. He cringes at the sight.

The zombie is not done with him yet. With another snarl, it tries to scramble across the table again and Pewdie desperately pushes his crowbar, tries to force the creature backwards. He's amazed by how strong the zombie is as it resists his shoves and when its arms claw out and grab hold of his sleeves, he whimpers at the contact, tries to shake himself out of its iron grip without letting go of his weapon. Suddenly, he's more terrified than he's ever been.

"No, no, no, let _go_," Pewdie finds himself babbling, his voice small and scared. His words only cause the zombie to thrash even more wildly at him, its grip on him firm and he is dragged closer to it by his sleeves. Pewdie automatically widens his standing stance, digging his heels onto the floor as he desperately fights back against the force of its pull. When he sees its disfigured head turn, aiming to bite his free hand, he jerks his arm back, twisting it under the creature's limb so that the limb becomes a barrier against its own teeth, which snap like those of an attacking, wild dog. He knows that the only thing that's keeping the zombie's jaws from propelling forwards to attack his face is the crowbar that's digging into its open throat.

"You can't have me, Father," he continues to babble and he knows it's useless and really unnecessary and will probably make everything worse but he just wants this thing to let _go_ of him. "It's not my time to go yet. Let me have my crowbar back and we can settle this like men. Let go of me. N-No, no, no, _no_. I'm sorry. Fff–nope, _no. _Don't eat me. I don't taste nice, I swear. Let go, Father. Let _go._"

He can't push this monster back – it's far too strong for him – and he hates the fact that it still has its grip on him. He's so tempted to let his crowbar go and smack the creature's hands away and just run, but he knows that the moment he lets go, it might be the last thing he does before the zombie pounces and takes a bite out of him. _What should I do? _He asks himself again, tearing his eyes away from the zombie for a second to glance around for something to use.

His gaze rests on the cross that had been knocked over on the table and he quickly decides that it's the next best thing. But how can he reach for it without releasing one hand from the crowbar? Perhaps if he throws the creature off-balance– no, perhaps if he pins it down on the table, this can buy him enough time to grab that cross.

So he readjusts his hold on the crowbar, takes a step back and drags the creature down with all his might until its body slams onto the table and its head hangs off the edge of it. He quickly plants his foot onto the back of the zombie's head, forcing its neck to bend forward at an uncomfortable angle and its face and snapping mouth to press against the side of the table, away from any of his limbs. He's faced with a new problem now as the zombie struggles wildly to raise its head, to lift itself up and he presses his foot down harder to pin it securely down.

Once he's got something of a grip on the thrashing zombie, he releases one hand from his crowbar, fights against the creature's arm on his sleeve and reaches out for the cross. With some difficulty, he strikes the side of the zombie's skull with the thick circular base of the cross, lands blow after blow onto the back of its head and onto its terrible head wound. He bashes it repeatedly, frenziedly, uncontrollably for a number of times until his clumsy movements cause the cross to suddenly slip out of his clammy hand and fly off somewhere.

_Oh sh_– _no freaking way_, he thinks, quickly grabbing hold of the crowbar with both hands and glances around hastily for the cross, unable to find it. _Where the heck is that cross?_ _Where did it go? Damn, I'm too close. I'm too close to it. I need to do something before it bites me._

There's nothing else within reach that he can use to beat the creature. He only has his crowbar once more and it seems to be the only thing left he has left to smash into the zombie's head and destroy its brain. But he can't do that unless he pries his crowbar free. So he increases the pressure on its head with the heel of his boot and gives a particularly hard yank.

The crowbar rips free. But not without tearing the ligaments in the zombie's throat out. Spatters of blood and bits of muscle hit his pants and the bottom of his shirt as he stumbles backwards and he's momentarily surprised when he actually slips out of the zombie's grasp. The creature itself slides forward from the momentum, snarling as half of its body tumbles off the side of the table before it lands jaw first onto the solid ground, legs still hanging in the air. Pewdie hears a disturbing _crack _as the zombie's jawbone breaks in half.

Seeing that it cannot lift itself up from its slump because its arms are folded underneath it, Pewdie seizes his chance and stomps on the back of its head to pin it down. That's when he cringes as he spots the terrible wound on the side of its head which had become worse after being bashed in further by the cross he'd used and he almost recoils at the disgusting sight. His blows had torn a hole through part of the skull like the cracked shell of an egg and he can see the gruesome layers of bloody flesh inside that open cavity. But he also notices that the wound seems tender enough that if one strikes hard, it's possible for a thin object to pierce through the rest of its skull and reach the brain.

_That's _where he needs to aim his crowbar at, Pewdie realises despite his revulsion at the sight. That's the place_._

So Pewdie wastes no more time swinging the crowbar and – _yes,_ makes contact as the curved end latches onto the hole on the side of the creature's head. He twists the crowbar in his hands, forces that curved end inwards, hears and feels the layers of flesh squelching as the thin metal sinks into its skull.

He feels the zombie thrashing violently under his foot, trying to throw him off, and he responds by applying more pressure onto its head, feels bones and teeth crunching underneath his boot. Gritting his teeth hard, Pewdie continues to twist the crowbar into the hole in its skull like one does with a screw with all his might, feeling his arms shake at the strain but he doesn't care. His mind repeats the same mantra to him again and again: _get to the brain, get to the brain _– and he's intent on doing that and nothing else. He sees the crowbar inch deeper and deeper into the skull and rearranges his grip every time it slips until his fingers bite into the metal. He hardly notices the sharp end digging into his palms, cutting through his skin and drawing blood.

He only stops twisting and pushing inwards once he's certain he can't push anymore, once the length of his crowbar has sunk two-thirds into the zombie's head, once he feels the end hit something too solid to penetrate. He pauses for a bit and realises that the zombie had stopped moving and after a few more seconds of still silence, that's when he slowly releases his grip on the crowbar. His fingers come away sore and bloody, taking a while to uncurl, but they're shaking visibly in the sunlight and – just like that, Pewdie feels drained, _exhausted_.

He stumbles backwards and collapses in a boneless heap on the ground, panting long and hard for breath, his gasps echoing off the walls of the hall. He then slowly edges away from the dead zombie's body, at the sight of a crowbar buried deeply into its skull and he's unaware that he's leaving bloody handprints on the carpet.

"Okay," he gasps, bringing a trembling hand up and pushing his tousled, sweaty hair back and staining it red. His chest and throat hurt. His eyes are stinging, burning. His vision blurs. Something wet spills down his cheeks. "Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay, okay…"

Too exhausted to move, he slumps where he sits and stares blankly forward in a daze, unaware that behind him, one of the double doors leading into the nave of the church is opening.

* * *

When Cry wakes up, he finds the church bathed in the soft, warm rays of morning sunlight. He feels a whole lot better now than he had been the night before, with his body and mind refreshed. After downing half a bottle of water, he gets up and walks up the length of the walkway and stops by Pewdie's bench, suddenly remembering that the other man had been sitting here in prayer many hours before.

Strangely, he isn't as angry at the other as he was yesterday. He wonders whether it is because of the church's peaceful ambience that his heart had been calmed. He still can't quite forgive what Pewdie had done but at least Cry decides that the deed isn't bad enough to make him hate the other man. After a brief pause, Cry goes back to retrieve Pewdie's blanket, and when he stands over the other man, he tucks the sheet around his shoulders before stepping back to let him rest.

Afterwards, Cry scribbles a note on a page from a notebook he took from the safe house they stayed in and leaves it under Pewdie's crowbar. With backpack and shovel hoisted on either shoulder, he decides to explore the rest of the church. More importantly, he wants to find some steps that lead upstairs to a bell tower or a rooftop of some sort because he wants to see whether he can get a signal on their CB radio.

He finds a narrow staircase outside the nave of the building, located to the left of the entrance, hiding behind a simple swinging fire door. He creeps upstairs, one hand loosely gripping the shovel, and tries not to let the steps creak too loudly under his boots. The stairs lead to an empty landing with a couple of doors and Cry cannot help but peek through each and every one of them and search through the drawers and cabinets for something to take. In one room, he comes across a little library with shelves full of theology and religious books. In another, it's a beautiful marble tiled bathroom with a glass sink bowl and a stylish set of taps but no running water. Plastic green vines snake down the walls and a row of mini potted cacti line the bathroom's only windowsill.

In every room he goes into, he makes sure he turns on the radio and checks every channel for any active transmissions. It's only when he's looting the cabinets of one of the rooms that his radio suddenly emits a sharp buzzing and whining noise.

"Hello?" Cry says into the microphone after he scrabbles for the device in his bag and cradles it in his hands, his heart pounding in anticipation. A few seconds later, a series of squeals and static noise comes through and he thinks he hears words within the interference. He bends his ear closer to the speaker and concentrates hard.

"…anyone…fight…dead…too man…out…"

He _isn't _imagining things. Someone _is _out there. He hits the _Talk _button and says, "Hello? Is someone there? Can you hear my voice? We need help. We're in a church. Hello?"

"...urvivors…meet…safe…sundown–"

A hissing white noise suddenly overlaps any more words before another high pitched static squeal causes him to cringe away and the device then goes silent. Cry makes several more attempts to send his messages, waits almost ten minutes for a reply and gets nothing. He leans back against the cabinet he has been rummaging through and sighs in frustration.

"Damn it," he mutters, gripping the radio hard in his hand until his knuckles turn white. "What the fuck is wrong with this thing _now_?"

Perhaps he needs to get outside, get to a high, open space and try again. He eyes the window and slowly gets up to go over to it. The room he's in overlooks a section of the housing estate that the church is located next to and he can see the many staggering forms of zombies clustered together and moving around purposely in groups. Cry swallows, recognising this new problem. The zombies out here are awake, perhaps roused by the thunderstorm last night seeing that they had been in the middle of it. It's best that he and Pewdie find an exit that is the furthest away from any of the suburban houses. The worst case scenario would be to use something to distract the zombies while he and Pewdie escape unnoticed.

He isn't sure if he wants to find that signal again because he's afraid that if he opens a window and does receive the transmission, the static noise might be loud enough to attract any passing zombie's attention. The last thing he wants is to be trapped in a church with a horde of zombies banging on the doors outside.

On the other hand, he's thrilled that they are finally receiving something on the radio, that they are finally hearing living people's voices, that they are not the only ones alone out here. Somewhere beyond this housing estate, perhaps in the town right ahead, there are people who are fighting and surviving just like they are. Or even better, people who may be waiting to be sent out and help those in need like them. It's a newfound hope for him and he cherishes this feeling, uses it to lift his spirits to help him keep on going. It won't be long now, he thinks. It won't be long until help arrives.

Feeling invigorated from this thought, he turns off the radio for now and continues scavenging the room for something useful to take. There's a first aid kit box he retrieves from the top of a dusty wardrobe and the small kitchen he finds at the end of the landing becomes a gold mine to him. He stuffs a couple of boxes of cookies, some bottles of water, a pair of scissors and a ballpoint pen, two cans of corned beef, a packet of jellybeans and some chocolate bars into his backpack. He ignores the bag of coffee beans by the stylish coffee maker but snatches a little tin of mints off the counter and slips that into his pocket. He spends a few minutes rearranging the contents of his backpack before he hoists it up his shoulders and picks up his shovel.

He isn't sure how long he spent exploring the upstairs landing of the building. But once he's satisfied with his scavenging, he makes his way downstairs, passing the stone font decorated with cherubs, and pushes one of the doors leading into the nave of the building open and slips into the hall. As he walks up the length of the walkway, he begins to realise that none of the pews are occupied and that Pewdie isn't sitting in any of them. The other man's bag is still there in one of the middle rows and his blanket is flung over one of the benches in the front. Cry unconsciously tightens his grip on his shovel, suddenly wary of the entire room as he strolls cautiously forward, eyes searching each row for the other man.

And he sees it. On the altar before him, with half of its body sprawled down the edge of the communion table is a dead zombie priest, a crowbar stuck deep into a hole on the side of its head. The cross which used to sit on the table lies on its side on the carpeted floor, its circular base stained with blood. A few paces away, near the steps leading to the altar, Cry finds Pewdie sitting slumped forward with his head bent down and his back to him.

For a second, Cry stops in his tracks, unsure of whether he should approach the other man. He doesn't want to entertain the possibility that the worst thing might have happened. From what he sees from this scene, he assumes that Pewdie had been attacked by a hidden zombie but had already taken care of the problem. Yet why is Pewdie looking like that, slumped on the floor and looking as small and frail as a new-born kitten? Unless–

_No, no, no, no, no, no–, _Cry thinks, suddenly panic-stricken and scared senseless at the thought. Oh god, I don't know what I'll do. I don't know _what _to do if that turns out to be true. I can't lose him. I don't _want_ to lose him.

"Pewds?" Cry calls, his voice coming out in a shaky breath. I'm an idiot, he berates himself. I shouldn't have left him here. We shouldn't have split up at all. What the hell was I thinking?

He cautiously makes his way closer to the steps of the altar, his shovel clutched and ready to swing if need be. Eventually, he can hear Pewdie gasping and muttering something under his breath, his words sounding a little like, "okay, okay, okay, okay–" repeated over and over again like a mantra.

The last time Cry checked, zombies don't speak.

"Pewds!" he sighs in relief.

His spell of wariness breaks and he hurriedly climbs up the steps onto the altar and crouches before the other man. The first thing he notices is that Pewdie's hands are limply held out in front of him, drenched in blood which drips onto the carpet below.

Oh god, Cry thinks in alarm, feeling the fear and dread return to him tenfold. Oh god oh god oh god oh _fuck_. Pewdie might not have turned into a zombie now but that doesn't cross out the possibility that he could have been _bitten_ by one.

"Are you bitten?" Cry asks in direct manner, forcing his voice to sound firm and serious before waiting for a response.

"_Pewds_," Cry calls again, a little louder this time when the other doesn't stir. "Pewds, this is really important. This is important. I need you to answer me this. Did it _bite_ you? Are you bitten? Pewds? _Pewds_!" He seizes Pewdie by the shoulders and almost pulls back in surprise. Pewdie is shivering uncontrollably and his face, although Cry can't see much underneath his wild, blood-stained hair, looks unnaturally pale.

"Oh god. Okay, okay, okay, okay," Cry gasps, swallowing to fight back his sense of panic and dread; fights back the urge to back away from the other man and run because he doesn't want to handle this if it turns out to be true. No, no, I need to check for bite marks, he forces himself to think instead. I need to make sure he's _not_ bitten.

He hurriedly inspects the most obvious spots for bites – the arms, the neck, the shoulder, the side, the legs, the face – but he finds no skin marred by teeth marks nor is there any other injury apart from the blood on Pewdie's hands. Cry peers closely at the palms, feeling his heart pound agitatedly in his chest, before he draws back in relief when he finds no signs of bites. The skin on the heels of Pewdie's hands seem to be torn though which explains the source of the blood. Cry needs to tend to those wounds soon.

"Pewds," says Cry again, now a little calmer after that scare. He lightly pats Pewdie's cheek in an effort to rouse the other and finds it damp with drying tears. He's beginning to get very worried when he realises that Pewdie hasn't moved or shown any kind of response for the last couple of minutes. In fact, the other man doesn't seem to notice that Cry had been crouching in front of him for a while. Instead, he continues to stare blankly forward in a stunned daze, drawing slow and shallow breaths.

He's in shock, Cry suddenly realises in concern. He'd just killed his first zombie after all.

"It's okay now," Cry tries to reassure the other, hoping that his words could reach him. "It's safe. We're safe. No zombies nearby. You're not bitten. You're gonna be fine, Pewds. No need to worry. Come on, man."

When Pewdie still doesn't so much respond to that, Cry begins to feel a little desperate. "Pewds? Pewds, please?" he pleads, feeling helpless and scared once more. "Please say something. Say my name. It's me, remember? It's Cry. Remember me? Please, Pewds. Don't be like this, man. I don't know what to do. Come on, Pewds… Pewds, _please_."

What do you do if a person goes into shock? Cry thinks. Dammit, why does he feel this cold?

Instantly, Cry realises what he can do and he's appalled to have not thought of this earlier. He briefly lets go of Pewdie to lower his backpack onto the floor and digs out his yellow blanket. After he unfolds it, he edges closer towards Pewdie and draws the blanket across the other man's back, carefully wrapping it around those shivering shoulders, trying to keep him warm and comfortable.

And he tenses in surprise when Pewdie suddenly leans forward across the gap that separates them and very gently rests his head onto the space between Cry's neck and shoulder. Speechless at the unexpected act, Cry can't do much but stare blankly at the mop of bloodied hair that's brushing the side of his jawline. He feels the length of Pewdie's body trembling violently against his.

About a few seconds later, he sees Pewdie's shoulders begin to visibly shake before the latter wholly breaks down, his chest heaving up and down against Cry's in a fit of uncontrollable, hiccupping sobs. Cry soon feels a damp patch of warm tears begin to soak the collar of his shirt; feels Pewdie burying his face further into his collarbone. A feeling of fierce protectiveness suddenly swells up in Cry's chest and he pulls on the two ends of the blanket around Pewdie's shoulders and draws the other a little closer to him in a semblance of an embrace.

"I'm here," Cry murmurs reassuringly to the blood-stained mop of hair resting against him. "I'm here now. It's okay. It's alright. We're safe, Pewds. I'm here for you, buddy."

He lets Pewdie sob his heart out, continues mumbling comforting words to him; holds his shivering body against his. He doesn't know how long they sit there on the carpet of the altar in front of the dead zombie, bathed in the warm sunlight shining through the stained glass windows above them. He doesn't know and he doesn't really care. All that he's concerned about right now is for Pewdie to get better.

Sometime later, once Pewdie's sobs die down and he's drawing long and calmed breaths while they bask in the thick silence of the church, Cry finally hears him speak and his voice is croaky and muffled into his shirt. "Oh man," Pewdie moans. "I killed a zombie priest, Cry. I'm definitely going to hell now."

That one remark is so irrelevant and inappropriate in this context that it throws Cry completely off like a hit from a baseball bat, and he's simply stunned in the aftermath of it. After a few seconds of flabbergasted silence, Cry bursts out laughing, his voice echoing off the walls, and he unconsciously tightens his hold on their embrace and feels Pewdie weakly shaking with laughter against him. Goodness, he can't help it though. He really doesn't know if what Pewdie had said was serious or was simply said in jest. What he does know is that Pewdie has an amazing ability to change the mood of the room within seconds. He suddenly feels an unexpected rush of affection for the other man and thinks, _goddammit. I can't stay mad at this guy for long. I really can't. _

"Okay, tough guy," says Cry coaxingly, letting go to help the other man up on his feet. "Let's go get you cleaned up."

Pewdie looks worse for wear when he emerges, sniffing, from Cry's shoulder, his face blotchy with dried tears, his eyes and nose swollen red. When he tries to wipe his face, he suddenly flinches and glances down at his hands and Cry sees that his palms are caked with a crust of dried blood, making it hard for him to even try bending his fingers.

"Never mind that," says Cry, pulling the other man's arm over his shoulders to support him. "Come on. One step at a time. Outside and up those stairs."

Cry takes him up to the small kitchen, sits him down on one of the stools tucked underneath a window and takes a seat on the other so they're sitting face to face. After dampening a tea towel, he begins to carefully wipe away the dried blood off of Pewdie's hands and finds the torn skin on the heels of the other man's palms. There are also a number of nicks, scratches and bruises scattered all over his fingers, including a thin red line cut across the inner joints.

Cry winces slightly at the sight, notices how tender the gashes on the heels look and when he cleans around them, the cuts begin to bleed again, slowly spreading across Pewdie's palm. Once he wipes most of the blood off, he puts down the tea towel, now stained red, and readies the cotton wool swabbed with antiseptic.

"You ready for this?" Cry asks, cradling one of Pewdie's hands with one of his own while holding the cotton wool in the other.

"No," Pewdie says weakly, and Cry lightly presses the cotton onto the bloody torn skin and Pewdie yelps in pain, jerking his hand out of his grasp.

"You'll be fine," Cry says reassuringly, taking the hand back and continues to lightly dab the swabbed cotton onto the cuts and grazes. Once he's done disinfecting both hands, he extracts a roll of bandages from the first aid kit and begins to dress the wounds, binding the bandages around the other man's palms as well as each individual finger. They both fall into a mutual silence.

"…Were you scared?" Pewdie croaks quietly, surprising Cry out of his concentration. The other man is staring glumly at the way he is tending to his injured hands. "When you killed your first zombie?"

Cry pauses in his wrapping, unsure about how to answer this sudden enquiry, but he is sitting close enough to Pewdie to notice his tired eyes and the curiosity that sits in his expression. He allows himself to briefly think back to the first time he picks up his shovel, the first time he stabs it into a zombie's neck and severs its head, the first time he stands over its decapitated body, filled with a tempest of emotions that had coursed through him. Except that now he also remembers Marilyn and George and Thomas. He also remembers Dog. Remembers just how fucking awful it felt losing all three of them.

Despite how long ago all these events seem to him, the pain of their loss still stabs him hard in the heart. This is not good, he thinks. There is a reason why he doesn't dwell on bad memories because he believes they distract him, make him lower his guard, breaks him down. So when he feels the flood of unwanted emotions, he mentally holds them all back, banishes them into the recesses of his mind. He only allows one aspect of those memories to linger just to answer Pewdie's question.

"I wasn't," Cry reveals truthfully in a guilty mumble, resuming his work on Pewdie's hands. He realises he has lowered his head almost shamefully when he says it and senses Pewdie leaning forward into his space, his head tilting closer towards his as if he is trying to hear his words better.

"You weren't?" Pewdie says, his voice still raspy and quiet. There's another question in his words that Cry identifies.

"I was feeling a lot of things actually," Cry admits and his words come out soft and quiet like Pewdie's too and he's not even sure why he's doing it. Perhaps it's because they're sitting so near each other with their heads bowed together, almost as if they're sharing secrets. "I was angry mostly. And there was a lot of hate and sadness and guilt as well. I let everything out and focused it all on that zombie. I guess… I guess didn't have enough time to be scared. Too many feelings were happening all at once. I just went fucking ballistic–"

"Don't swear," Pewdie cuts in unexpectedly.

"What?" Cry blinks, thrown off-guard once more. He glances up and sees how close they are; sees the disapproving frown on Pewdie's face.

"We're in a _church_," although his voice is still weak, Pewdie still points out this fact in an empathetic manner. "So mind your language, man."

_Really_? Cry wants to say to him at first, wants to laugh at this but decides not to do so in the end because he still isn't sure whether the other man is being serious or not. Nonetheless, he finds it amusing that Pewdie has the decency to remain respectful and civil in a religious building like this even when everyone knows for a fact that he swears like a sailor and unconsciously spouts indecent and often vulgar comments in his videos.

"Sorry," Cry quickly apologises, looking back down to resume his work. "Anyway, what I wanted to say was that I went ballistic. You know, batshi– er, I went insane. I kept hitting it and hitting it and then… well, I didn't think of anything except that I had to kill it before it kills me first."

"So were you…not okay after that?" Pewdie asks.

_Did you go into shock too? _is actually what Cry is hearing from Pewdie's words. He exhales deeply and says, "I actually just brushed the whole thing off and then went on my way."

He hears Pewdie breathe for a while, senses the latter's gaze on their hands again before he hums in a wistful manner.

"Geez. You're so brave, Cry," Pewdie mumbles. "When you've got your shovel, you're such a badass when you kill zombies. It makes sense though. You're used to it by now so you're not scared at all. I mean, I've never done this killing thing before so I'm not used to the feeling. I really had no idea how–" Pewdie's voice suddenly breaks.

"Not all of us react the same way," Cry explains gently. "Don't feel so bad about it."

"…I guess you're right," Pewdie continues to mumble, although his voice sounds suspiciously thick, as if he's holding back tears. "I mean, compared to you, I'm a fuc– I'm kind of a wuss, right?" he says with a sheepish laugh.

"No, you're not," Cry cannot help but counter this with a scoff. "You're not a wuss, Pewds. You've never been one since all this crazy stuff happened. No, you're brave too. In your own way. I mean, I don't think I can do that – what _you_ can do. Like when you always seem to find something to laugh at even when everything else goes bad. Or that time when you pulled me out of the car. Remember that? Or-or when you tell me we should still treat places like someone's house or a church with respect. You're still _you_ even when the rest of us are falling apart. You're probably even braver than I am."

Cry falls silent for a brief moment just so he can concentrate on finishing up his bandaging. Once he's done, he lets go and finally looks up and meets Pewdie's woeful gaze. Now that Cry is seeing him this close, he notices exactly how wretched and miserable Pewdie appears with his red-rimmed, teary eyes and his blotchy face, his blood-stained hair and his doleful expression, as if he doesn't know whether to accept Cry's words of encouragement or not. The very sight tugs at Cry's heartstrings, bringing with it an unexpected feeling of regretful sadness. He feels sorry that Pewdie had gone through this first zombie kill and, unlike him, had come away feeling shaken and traumatised. He feels sorry that he had yelled at him a day before and had thrown his words back into his face.

It really wasn't his fault, Cry tells himself. It wasn't Pewdie's fault that he froze and couldn't save me at that moment. It was his first time after all. I was just so scared. So scared that I got angry. I can't be mad at him because of that one mistake. I have to give him another chance.

At this resolution, Cry swallows and lowers his gaze timidly back to Pewdie's bandaged hands which are still held out in front of him. "Look, um…" he starts, fighting off his discomfort and awkwardness. "I'm not… I'm not angry at you anymore. So don't let whatever happened yesterday bother you, okay? Maybe we'll just forget it ever happened–"

"I can't pretend something like that didn't happen, Cry," Pewdie suddenly says, surprising him because the other man's voice sounds the steadiest that it's been all morning. "And I won't forget it either. Because you were right. I needed to wake up. And after what happened, I did wake up. I guess it didn't hit me until now."

"But–" Cry wants to tell him that it's still wasn't right of him to corner Pewdie like he did and lash at him with harsh words to hurt him, but he is cut short when Pewdie merely shakes his head.

"You had every right to be mad at me," Pewdie says. "And to… to not believe in me. And I know I screwed up but I want to do better next time and change your mind. I've been thinking a lot about what happened and I didn't even notice… I was really oblivious about– um," he suddenly stops, looking lost for words to express himself. Cry blinks, becoming curious at whatever it is that Pewdie is trying to say to him. So he waits patiently for the other to continue speaking, unaware that he's fixing him a look complete with a raised eyebrow, and Pewdie's face suddenly flushes under his stare.

"Um… it's nothing," Pewdie mumbles, glancing away in embarrassment. "I just… I want you to be okay, alright? That you don't run into any trouble and get– um, basically… I don't want anything bad to happen to you. That's all. I just want you to know that. So yeah. You can, uh… probably stop looking at me like that right now."

At this acknowledgement, Cry averts his gaze away too, trying not to smile. He's surprised that he actually gets what Pewdie is trying to say to him because he feels the same way towards the other man too. Cry doesn't want Pewdie to die. He doesn't want Pewdie to turn into a zombie either. He doesn't want to lose his only friend because if that were to happen, Cry doesn't know what he will do next. He doesn't know if he will ever get over the pain of losing Pewdie.

"Listen," Cry says resolutely because he wants Pewdie to know where he stands on this too. "I'm glad nothing bad happened to you, man. But – but, _geez. _For a minute, I thought you were bitten. And you really scared the hell out of me, Pewds. Don't do that again, okay?" After a brief pause, he playfully mutters out, "You dummy."

"_You_'re the dummy," Pewdie shoots back, albeit a little weakly. "Who said we should never split up in the first place? And yet you _did_."

"Ah. Touché_,_"Cry says, feeling a little guilty. "I guess I _am _a dummy."

"Maybe we're _both _dummies," Pewdie corrects him instead, his voice sounding pensive. "We're both too stupid to realise we actually need to look after each other."

The realisation that comes with this statement surprises Cry because for the first time he's aware of the way he had been treating Pewdie throughout their months of travel. Despite their long-term friendship before the arrival of this new zombie age, he had viewed Pewdie more as a travelling companion and looting partner – someone whom he didn't mind having to hop along for the ride and who kept a lookout for zombies while Cry scavenged for supplies. With these roles, Cry had assumed that he and Pewdie would automatically have each other's backs in any perilous situation and give the other the morale boost they needed to keep themselves going. Yet this was only done for the good of their team. Cry didn't even consider the notion of looking after Pewdie as someone he actually _cared_ about.

Except that maybe he does now, after that initial scare that Pewdie might have gotten bitten, at the realisation that Cry can easily lose Pewdie altogether. Perhaps it's time they change their attitudes towards each other. Perhaps it's time they start taking care of one another not just out of necessity for their survival.

"You're right," Cry says, giving Pewdie an encouraging smile. "We're all we've got after all. And I'm not mad. About what happened before. Not anymore. We're okay, Pewds. We'll be okay. We've done pretty well so far. We'll get through this. What do you say, buddy?"

He's satisfied to see the corner of Pewdie's lip curl upwards into something of a smile before the other man glances down at his bandaged hands and, despite his sorry-looking state, releases an overdramatic sigh. Cry is glad he sounds a lot more like his old, lively self again.

"I'd give you a brofist if I can," Pewdie murmurs sheepishly, raising his outstretched palms. "But I guess it's not possible right now. I can barely move my fingers after all."

With a mock-impatient huff, Cry reaches out and takes one of Pewdie's hands, cradling it with both his own, and gently curls Pewdie's fingers inwards into a very loose fist. He then turns it over, releases one of his hands and uses it to bump his knuckles against Pewdie's bandaged ones. It's the first time ever that Cry initiates a fist bump between them.

"There," says Cry triumphantly, glancing up to see Pewdie's astonished face. "We're even."

A few seconds later, Pewdie's mouth breaks into a truly brilliant grin.

* * *

_(Oh please you two. Oh, and here's some long and fun notes.)_

In this chapter, the zombie priest killing scene is reminiscent of Pewds accidentally killing the priest, Father Aville, when he played one of his earlier games, _Nosferatu._ You've also got Cry's yellow camping blanket which, of course, recalls to mind his character in _Bloody Trapland_, one of the coop games that he and Pewds played. If you've also caught Cry's obvious dislike for coffee in his raiding scene (yes, he mentioned it inone of his gameplays), then a hurrah and a brofist for you.

I guess this chapter is supposed to point out a few things - firstly, the difference between Pewds and Cry's reactions when they'd killed their first zombies. While Cry's response is a mixture of emotions which he then dismisses after he's done, Pewdie's is one of extreme shock, to the point where he can't help but break down from just how overwhelming the experience is. It's also one of the rare times that he exposes his vulnerability to the world and to Cry in particular.

Secondly, I needed Pewds and Cry to wake up and realise that working together as a team isn't enough for them. They've got to realise that they actually genuinely care for each other and are afraid that they can't go on if one of them dies. So voila, here's Pewds going, "Maybe we're _both_ dummies."

I also had to revise the zombie priest killing scene because I wanted a more realistic way for Pewdie to use the crowbar as a weapon. Contrary to popular belief, one of the things that actually make the crowbar an ineffective weapon for killing zombies is the length (this can be fixed if you have a longer crowbar) or the danger of getting the curved end stuck somewhere and leaving you momentarily defenseless. So yeah. Pewdie's method here was quite risky but it worked.

Finally, the Pewds praying scene is an idea by my fellow writer, who pointed out I should put it in for kicks because we don't see a lot of those in zombie stories. It's a time for Pewds to reflect on his thoughts and get his bearings again. It's also something that needed to be pointed out in general anyway. When you're scared and alone, who do you turn to in order to become brave again?

As always, reviews of any kind are appreciated. For those who do send me lengthier, more detailed ones, I take my hat off to you. See you next chapter.


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